


Calore Dance Academy

by Natthefantastic



Category: Red Queen - Victoria Aveyard
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Dance, F/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2019-09-30 02:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 46,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17215151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natthefantastic/pseuds/Natthefantastic
Summary: Mare Barrow, street felon by day and wistful dancer by night, one day finds herself with a job at Manhattan's most prestigious dance academy, owned by the notorious Calore family, after a lousy pickpocket attempt on the academy's own Tiberias Calore. Quickly, she jumps from being a low-level intern to one of the most elite dancers at the studio through sheer luck and a fall from the stage rafters. Along the way, she meets fellow dancers that can be half-trusted, such as the blue-eyed Maven Calore and the outcast technique instructor, Julian Jacos, and tenfold the enemies. As the seventeen-year-old climbs up the levels of social class, she dances a dangerous game of love and betrayal as lies are told and secrets are revealed. The gang Mare belongs to, The Scarlet Street Fighters, and the Mafia led by the Calore clan are brutal enemies, and the girl, simple as the blood in her veins, is caught directly in the middle. Mare soon discovers that the Calore family not only has a passion for dance and theater, but an obsession for power and money. And what better way to attain riches than with murder and backstabbing? As the young dancer soon discovers, it seems the Calores control everything. Including her life, if she allows it.





	1. Chapter 1

Summertime in this part of the country brings humidity with it.

The soles of my worn shoes have learned it all too well, spending countless hours trekking the avenues of New York. It's a shame I had to give up my bike to Kilorn for his commute to that swanky seafood grill downtown, the fact of which, continues to instill confusion in my family. It's a half-joke at home that Kilorn has some kind of blackmail over his boss.

My sister Gisa and I went our separate ways a couple blocks ago, as she headed further south to her favorite store-I always forget its name-in the Garment District. I offer to go with her, but she always refuses. There must be a cute boy working there, or else, it's the youth-sparked intrigue of wandering the streets alone.

I can't blame her when I certainly wouldn't want her trailing me in Times Square. It must be around noon, judging by the sun and the growl rolling in my stomach. I'd call it quits for the day, if not for the rush of businessmen approaching the building I lean against.

My brothers, Tramy and Bree, never say anything about how I collect the money thrown on the dinner table every night. Though they know, as well as my parents and Gisa. And every night, my sister scoffs with her annoyingly beautiful face and Dad turns his head, as if ignoring what I do will make it any better. Mom used to try, encouraged me to go ask Mister Whistle for a job in the miniature grocery store below our tenement; but even with Will, I won't stoop so low as to ask him for a job. 

I already get a salary from him, when I trade my pickpocket scores in for money.

The men clad in their thick jackets move slowly for my taste, but I can't blame them either. It must be ninety-five degrees out, and my skin threatens to break out into a sweat under the scarlet red hoodie I've drawn onto myself. A few minutes of burning in this zip-up will be worth it though, and I'm not taking chances. If I do run into any keen-sensed victims, my hood will obscure my face.

They move closer, closer, distracted amongst themselves and their phones, totally and utterly oblivious to the threat standing in plain sight, merely a forlorn teenager.

Or so they think.

Just as the barons cross the street opposite me, I replicate their movement, beelining for their pockets. This area of town is a favorite of mine, for the ever-present chaos. People bustle to and fro, always looking somewhere other than at the people around them, whether it be at the approaching stores or gigantic screens anchored to buildings.

Like a surgeon with hearts, my fingers are nimble and calm as I brush past the men, taking a quick glance into their coat pockets before fishing into them.

I have a phone and a twenty dollar bill when the walk sign morphs back to an angry red hand. With luck, the two men won't notice until they reach into their coats to pay their luncheon bills.

Subtly walking in the other direction, I feel a lick of bitterness shiver across my spine. Rich men, with their fancy coats and always having their meals prepared for them. I don't think I can remember when my family last ate out or wore newly-purchased clothing.  _Not since Dad got his legs blown off,_  I'm sure of.

Thanks to no one other than the very men I steal from. It's always the richly corrupt, with money enabling murder and getting away with it. In this case, Dad was caught in the crosshairs of their little wars with one another, seemingly endless, walking home on the street.

That was over ten years ago, when I was small and missing my front teeth and incapable of holding back my river of tears when Daddy came in through our warped apartment door in a hospital-issued wheelchair.

Mutilated, but with the kind of smile pasted on his face parents put on for their children. Fake and lying.

There was an explosion. He hardly talks about it. I hardly know what happened or why, only that it was  _their_ fault.

I try my best to saunter across the street, to act like I have no reason to run, even as my feet itch to pick up the pace.

"Hey!" Someone calls from behind me, and despite the wafting heat, the hairs on my arms rise. Behind me, two men-coincidence, I think not- sprint at me, and in a split-second decision, I start into a sprint of my own. I could play it out with a different method, let them grab me and burst into fake tears... optimistically, they'd let go without searching me, out of pity.

But, no. I'm already tardy for lunch with Kilorn at his workplace.

Neon advertisements flash at the corners of my vision, and the impact of the pavement with every step stings, though I don't let the minor annoyances slow me down. Forty-fifth street is alive with action, even in the middle of the week. In New York City, it always is. Yellow taxis are everywhere on the street, along with buses painted with more advertisements, and if I do indeed have luck on my side, maybe one would stop for me at the right place and I could hop on without attracting attention.

But that's a fool's hope. Luck plays by its own set of rules.

I run at a breakneck pace, but no one says anything, let alone blinks an eyelash. The locals are used to this sort of thing, and tourists are trying to follow along. However, their state of oblivion doesn't help with pushing through their ranks, no easier than walking through water. "Excuse me," I grumble over and over mechanically, but it hardly suffices. Shoving is more effective.

There's a reprieve in the crowd, and I use it as an opportunity to glance backward, only to find one of the men, tall and lean, closing the distance, while the other is probably trying to find a cop. A twenty dollar bill and a new phone is nothing to them, but they can't let street scum have a win.

Buildings around the Square and in downtown Manhattan are sleek and modern, never decorated with those handy flaws and cracks I'm fond of. If I were in a chase through my neighborhood, I'd have these idiots running around themselves in a matter of seconds. Not here; the buildings are too tall, too perfect to attempt to scale. "Dammit," I say, but it doesn't reduce the muscle I have from all those years of dance, years of memories that I usually repress. 

The point is, that I can run faster than anyone else on this block.

Grace, I didn't lose either, and I navigate the masses with comfort now as it's thinning. I swerve the corner that intersects this street with another, filled to the brim with scents my mouth waters at. I don't complain, don't have a reason to complain at my mother's cooking when she does good with the resources she has. But she hasn't gone to culinary school and doesn't have a functional microwave.

More, useless bitterness.

The man that on my heels has dissolved into the crowd, though it doesn't take a genius to guess what's happening. They're going to try to cut me off, catch me off my guard using a different route. Though these days, I'm never off my guard.

Instead of turning the block and doing what they want, I dart out into the traffic just as a green light turns on for the adjacent path. My heart might skip a beat if I could say that I hadn't done this before.

Crossed New Yorkers and taxi drivers honk at me, their horns blaring in my ears so loudly they'll be ringing when I return home later today. It's not the first time I've been the cause of a traffic jam, either.

When I safely reach the other side of the broad street, I allow the breath I didn't realize was being held into the air. I avoided their trap, hopefully, cleaved a big enough distance between us that they wont' be able to find me.

But as I slow into a brisk walk...they're tracking me, using the stolen phone.

I curse at myself and slap my cheek, punishing my own stupidity as much as any sane one would.  _Of course, they're tracking you, Mare._ My weary feet grind to a halt at the threshold of a Chinese restaurant, and I use the awning as a bit of covering for the moment. Though I know all too well that it won't do anything to prevent the power of GPS. Brushing my brown and gray-tipped hair from my face, I pull the drawstrings of my hoodie taught, and fumble for the 'Off' button.

"Stupid," I whisper, though I could scream the words and no one would hear me.

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

Kilorn must have blackmailed his boss. It's the only solution to this outlandish situation.

Before me rests an imposing sight at least twenty stories tall, made of steel, glass, and fury. In between shaky fingers, brittle with self-loathing, I hold my money up to the sunlight and tuck it in my jeans before I can think twice. Kilorn wanted to meet here for lunch, to brag about what a great job he has, though they don't pay him anything special. I'm planning on ordering just a water and clutching my stomach until I can leave and go eat where the other patrons won't scoff at the way I hold a fork.

"Mare!" I whip around, throwing up a fist protectively. Instead of the anticipated police force I'm expecting, my gaze is met with Kilorn's sea-green eyes. I would giggle and call him silly with that server's getup of his, if not for the distressed look on his face.

"What is it?" I ask, nearing him. I remove my hoodie and knot it around my waist, suddenly feeling self-conscious. I won't be as recognizable with it on.

Some sort of condiment is smeared on his left shirt sleeve and a smudge is in his tawny hair. "I underestimated..." he stops, searching for the right phrases in my eyes. "how cruel high-end employers can be. One screw up, they said from the beginning, and you're out. I tripped with a saucepan and that mistake exploded in my face. Literally. They fired me an hour ago." Kilorn bites out the rest of the words, barring his teeth and clenching his fists until they turn white.

I had been looking through the shades of the eatery, my mouth ajar from staring at the food for too long. Ashamed after what Kilorn just revealed, I jerk my neck towards him and narrow my eyelids. "They fired you because of an accident?" I clarify.

"No." He shakes his head and crosses his arms. "This place hires employees for apprenticeship who come from good families, people who have connections that need an 'easy' job while waiting for a better one. This was supposed to be permanent for me. When I got this job, it was because it was Christmastime, and they were busy, and I told them I was a fast learner. This... incident was an excuse for them to get rid of me."

My fist bunches up again, like Kilorn's, and the bones within them harden, wishing to shatter the glass we stand outside of. They had no right to fire Kilorn, someone who actually has use for the money he's paid. No like those spoiled rotten kids who get everything. Everything. "What are you going to do?" I ask, praying for a response before I  _do_ something.

At first he's silent, and his mask that I easily peel off reveals deep turmoil and anger. Wild, unchecked anger, that if not controlled, is going to end very disastrously. "Kilorn Warren. What are you going to do?" is repeated by me, too loudly on the quiet street.

His black and white server's uniform is close fitting, and his heavy breathing is palpable. Prior to a protest from me, his fingers are intertwining with mine, and he's steering us down the street, dodging the few people that walk down it. "Come on," he says, making eye contact for a split-second, as we skim the edges of the buildings, marble and smooth metals.

We arrive at the corner of the building and are greeted by an old man perched upon a cracked wooden crate, a cigarette forming a gap between his lips. He offers a lopsided grin and a wave to Kilorn, ruffling hair that hasn't been tended to in days.

Kilorn returns the gesture but retains distance from the man. He pulls me to the other side of the street, and a quarter of the way up a set of shining stairs. The set of stairs leads to a bridge that extends over and across the street to a row of green trees.

He sits down, groaning, and pats the spot next to me, beckoning for me to sit. "Don't ask." Kilorn motions to the odd man across the street, who is still waving to us. For an area of Manhattan of these likes, it's surprising security from somewhere or other hasn't scared him off yet.

"Should I ask about that terrifying gleam in your eyes, then?" I query, deciding to stay standing, though my knees ache from the run across town.

His Adam's Apple bounces in his throat and he's up, probably to not feel small in comparison to a standing Mare Barrow. Not that I strike intimidation in the first place, with my staggering height of five feet, two inches. Kilorn, if he wiped that soft expression off his face that he forever carries and wore an article of clothing that wasn't flannel or blue jeans, might stand a chance of being scary.

"I'm going to enlist into the Scarlet Street Fighters, Mare," Kilorn says, and though he probably means to make it sounds harsh and unchangeable, it flops out as a mutter.

Kilorn and I have been friends for a long, long while. He's practically family, living below us in the apartment. And whether or not either of us likes to admit it, we seek one another's approval.

I have to grip the railing at my left to steady myself; otherwise, I might faint. I blink twice as if to clear the fog from my eyes, to see the world through a different lens, one that makes sense to me. I've heard tales-if they can be called that- rumors for sure, of what goes on in the Scarlet Street Fighter's domain. There isn't anybody I know who is involved with them, and the organization is so secretive the only place I've learned about them is from the news and fragments of gossip from busybodies on my street.

They target the rich and corrupt, from what I understand, but not without cost. Their members are killed at a horrifying rate, slaughtered viciously by their enemies. "Kilorn-"

"Don't say you'll handcuff me to the fire escape. No matter how hard you try, you can't preside over my life," Kilorn tells me and commences to climb up the bridge.

Nevermind, I suppose. No interest in my approval, now.

He skips every other step, but I pump my legs to keep pace with him. He won't have the last word in this argument. "I wasn't going to say that," I seethe, annoyed by how stupid he's being. Not stupid. Suicidal. "I'll handcuff you inside. Because if I left you outside, the neighbors would complain. Why do you want to do this?"

"Because it's the only way I can imagine I'll be able to make a difference in our lives. If I can't pay bills, I'll learn to fight."

"You? A warrior?" I scoff, not to offend him, but to make him mull this over. "The universe is more likely to make me pointe dancer again than your a warrior." I stop following, not interested in chasing him through all of New York.

I watch after him, climbing each stair with a heavy, maddening pound. The boy unlikely knows where he's going, only going that way to get me off his trail, away from his old work.

The slightest of breezes ruffles my hair, and I take a deep sigh, cherishing the fresh air that contrasts the stagnant heat.

Then I look down at the money in my hand, then the phone. This life is worth it for me, regardless of the constant peril I put myself in. I do it for my family. Kilorn would be doing it in anger, to make himself feel not completely worthless. But he won't be worth much of anything if the boy's dead.

I have to fix this.


	2. Chapter 2

The checkout of Will's deli and grocery store is exceptionally busy for a Wednesday afternoon.

By that, I mean there is one customer, aside from myself. The woman standing at the plastic counter has short-cropped blonde hair that skims her ears, and a leather jacket with tears in the sleeves.

When the bell rings as I open the chintzy door to the shop, she glances up from the counter and offers me a curt nod. I return the gesture but am more focused on her eyes- stern, piercing blue eyes that appear to be ancient, in spite of her age.

"Who are you? I'm here a lot, and I've never seen you here before," I explain to her, coming closer. I rarely purchase food from Will for worry that it's expired or ridden with mold, and instead of roaming through the cramped and stout aisles, I get into line behind the woman, who must be six feet tall.

"Last name's Farley. I don't trust you enough to give my first," she muses and faces me; in that movement, silver flashes at her hip.

My heart skips a beat, and then several more afterward, but I will my face to be calm, uninterested.

She's testing me, I know that much. To see if I'll shout for the cops, or so much as flinch. I stare at the outline the bulk of the gun makes against her jacket, and smile up at her. Bullets don't scare me, not when they're controlled by humans, who can be controlled. It's the elements, like rain and fire and lightning that are erratic and unbridled. It was the force of an explosion that took Dad's legs, not a tiny bullet. "Mare Barrow. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you," Farley echoes, and holds out a hand.

Before I can take it, Will comes out from behind the curtain covering his closet of a backroom, amusement written on his features. "And nice to see that you two have met. What can I do for you, Diana?" he asks with a smirk. Diana Farley. Now I know her name.

Will's beard, the color of snow, extends to his forearms, and he sweeps it to the side countless times. In those scrawny muscles, he carries shallow crates of canned food- black beans, peanut butter, and tomatoes. Prior to going behind it, he plops the crates on the counter, which vibrates a little with the impact.

Farley angles her chin towards me roughly. "Can I trust the girl, Willy?" There's an inky tattoo scrawled on the side of her throat, a black circle, with a series of red lines that make up a flower bursting from the inside. It looks like a gang symbol. Hell, it probably is.

"Miss Barrow resides in an apartment right above us, Diana. Do not mistake her for a spoiled girl who has accidentally found her way to East Harlem. She will not talk about our dealings, just as I don't speak about her dealings. She can trust you, yes, Miss Barrow?"

On instinct, I blurt out a "yes" without thought. But can she, really? And can I trust her, with that strange mark above her collarbone? The police are a group of bastards who favor the rich and powerful, whether or not people believe it, never caring or even glancing at people of my class. But if I have to, I will make the call; alone, I can't take down a girl double my size with her threatening nature. The narcs can, training and guns and all.

The tall woman and Will split a gaze, as if their eyes can communicate on their own.

A moment later, Farley taps a set of fingers on the plastic case, right above a stack of T-bone steaks. Will ran out of room in his refrigerators awhile ago, but came up with enough cash for whatever machine keeps his so-called fresh meat cold. Unless he's lying about keeping the meat sanitary in the first place. Whenever I lean against the counter, awaiting the money Will gives me daily, it doesn't seem chilled.

"I'd come back later, but I'm a busy woman. I need information, Will. About that family we were discussing on the phone yesterday. There's something off, and my team intends to uncover them for what they are. Just another set of corrupt rich folk, you know?"

She's awful vigilant with her words. not contributing names or deeds aloud. And I can't exactly be offended when I don't mean my promise. Maybe it's best, with me blissfully ignorant of this woman's plots. After today, I'll never see her again and have no thread of involvement with her.

"And as you asked, I dug up all the dirt I could about the  _family_ ," he says that last word with an ineffable quality, plainly secretive and dark. Without turning from Farley, he reaches for a manila file on the ledge of the window that looks out on an intersection and some nicer housing complexes. "I genuinely wish the best of wishes to your conquests. Tell the others I said hello."

Others?

"I certainly will," Farley says, gripping the thin collection papers in her hand. She now turns to me. "It was nice to meet you, truly, Miss Barrow. But don't come looking for me."

Will rounds the corner so that he can pat my back. "Even high school dropouts are not foolish enough to search for the invisible, Diana." My shoulderblades clench under his palm, silently reprimanding him for telling her my shame. The academic life wasn't for me, but I used to try, used to try for the sake of my family... yet after Dad, and after Shade left to do whatever the hell's he's been doing these last months, I gave up on any college aspirations. The school a couple blocks west of here is crappy anyways. I have better ways to spend my hours than at a desk that will lead nowhere. "The Scarlet Street Fighters cannot be found."

Oh, the damn coincidence... 

I raise my arm to slap Will's fingers off of my shoulder, and he pulls away before I can sting him. I start forward to act on my sudden rage, but she just watches, doesn't step back or make a move for her gun. "You have a grudge against the Fighters?" she simply questions.

Kilorn, so hazed by anger at the world, wants to become a member, wants to have one of those garish tattoos on his neck. If they weren't in New York, Kilorn wouldn't be out there, trying to find them and get himself killed.

But, it's not Farley's fault that he wants in or that's he's heard of them at all. If Kilorn couldn't get into this gang, I'm sure he'd find himself in cahoots with another.

"Farley, you have to promise me something," I huff out, always annoyed like this when I have to plead for things, rather than take them. "My friend, his name is Kilorn Warren. He wants to join your organization, but he's a lanky teenager who has never stared death in the face. He's not cut out for it. If he comes to you... turn him away."

She tuts, clucking her tongue. It's her chance to intimidate me and she doesn't fail, taking a daunting stride closer. "I don't blame you, but you're unaware of the size and capability my New York City rebels bring. No one is born a fighter, but transformed into one through months of training. You think my men and I are callous enough to let someone who can't fight out in the streets?" A hard laugh is released, bouncing off the store's painted popcorn walls.

"Good. My friend is also impatient; he'll only be a hindrance-"

The Street Fighter puts up a hand, showing roughened skin and chewed fingertips. "Members join of their accord, and cannot be prevented by others. Apologies, but no promises are going to be spoken." And at that, she exits Will's grocery store a moment later without a glance back.

"You are my most valuable customer, Barrow, but not my only customer," Will says, striding past me and returning to the counter. These days, it seems that everybody I know-or thought I knew- is going wayward. So, uninterested in talking to this man, who apparently does business with people worse than petty thieves, I turn to leave, go after Farley, but through the windows, the blonde-haired woman is not to be seen.

Remembering at the threshold of his shop, prepared to enter into the deafening July heat, I stop. To remove the phone from my pocket, glossy and unmarked. Completely different from my family's communal phone, ten years outdated and hogged by Gisa. "You can pay me tomorrow." Tossing him the phone, I don't bother waiting for a sound that will indicate if he caught it or not. I'd honestly rather see Will fumble for the gadget and embarrass himself than earn a small fifty.

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

"Anything interesting out on the job?" Bree eyeballs me as I tiptoe through our door. Dad's usually napping in the afternoon, and I do my best not to disturb him. Do my best to make money, too, but he doesn't appreciate that. I shove those thoughts away.

Like Mom, like me and all of my siblings save for Shade, Bree's eyes are dark brown, a rich chestnut color for hair. Though grey doesn't accent his tips as it does mine, from the stress, the countless miles I put on every day for the little money I gather. Gisa's the only one that looks any different from the bunch of us, with her curling red hair and high cheekbones. And Shade was the only one who inherited our father's eyes; a pretty honey.

"Nope," I say after a beat of hesitation. My brother doesn't need another weight to bare and knowing that Kilorn and his grocer are in a secretive and violent gang would hardly be of help. If Bree notices my pause, he doesn't explain his suspicions, as he returns to watching our box television. "Have you had success in your job search yet?"

He rolls his eyes. "Have you?" he snaps back, an answer in and of itself. My brothers, sister, and I used to be so close, though money has permanently been a sore issue. Before Shade left, before Dad had to quit work at that munitions factory, it felt like we were a family, not a heap of jaded people who resided together and nothing more than that.

 _At least I don't spend all the time that I'm awake in front of the television. At least I do my damndest to support this family._ I want to yell at him my thoughts, to see pain on his lazy face, but I dig my nails into my palm. After three breaths, impossibly shallow for how long they last, I grit my jaw and speak. "Have Mom make you a list to take to the store today. Get out of the house, Bree. It's not healthy to mope around here twenty-four, seven." I push my twenty into his hand and head for my shared room with Gisa.

I've heard some say that they wouldn't trade their homes for mansions. That home is home, no matter how rich or poor you are. But if I was awarded a choice, to stay in this shabby apartment or leave New York altogether for a fresh start, I would choose the latter without regret.

Our "house," as Mom enjoys to call it, is comprised of three bedrooms, a small dining room, a living room that leads into an outdated kitchen, and three-quarters of a bathroom. The furniture that we own was left here by the previous fools who rented this place, and a few items were thrifted from the dump a couple blocks from here. The wallpaper is curling in on itself, and the dripping of faucets are a constant. Dad used to be handy around the apartment, eager for something to break just for the pleasure of fixing it. Not anymore.

My sister shouldn't be home for awhile, and my pride relies on that assumption. She was going to purchase some new fabric and threads, and then go over to her sewing lessons. Money is stretched so thin, yet Gisa has to continue with her lessons. My feelings towards the subject are a mix of annoyance and unfortunate sisterly love. If one of us gets to live out our dreams, it should be her.

_Why does Gisa get to take the lessons she likes but I can't dance anymore?_

I remember hissing those words at Mom and Dad after I broke my leg last year. The injury was stupid, a dare to jump off the fire escape from Kilorn. The argument was single-sided, final, but I made it anyway, practically in tears when I was told they couldn't afford my classes. And they hadn't been able to afford it in the first place when I started years past. Nonetheless, Mom and Dad made it work with hours of overtime and bland food. But there are only so many hours in a day, and now with Dad out of the decent-pay workforce, it's pointless. With my medical bills there wasn't insurance to cover, there had to be cuts. Gisa's sewing lessons are practical, unlike dance, according to my parents, though they don't like to repeat it. She makes a profit in selling her designs. I'm nowhere near the top of the dancing chain to make a cent.

My collection of shoes are tucked neatly behind a plastic storage bin under my bed. The remainder of my family bets I threw them out in rage, but I did not. Every moment I have alone in my room, I twist the door lock and tie my pointe shoe ribbons around my ankles. I then go through the stretching routine I've followed since the day I entered my studio in bubblegum pink hair ties, then I do my strength training, and so on.

It's a cramped space, but I exploit it well. I use my dresser and walls to stretch my legs, do my splits on the strait between my bed and Gisa's. Her side of the room is a mirror of mine, with a bed and a dresser, a shared desk doubling as a nightstand between our beds. 

If my bedroom was soundproof, that would be preferred, so that I could tap without causing my parents to go into cardiac arrest. Gunshots aren't uncommon in this part of town. Instead, I shuffle my feet and shift my weight soundlessly, musicless, in my socks.

I often wonder, too much for my own wellbeing, what would've happened if I hadn't fractured my tibia last spring. Mom was working two jobs at the time, Dad was a telemarketer, and Shade was working at the gym.  _Shade._

It was inevitable. Whether I had broken myself or not, they would've at some point told me what my classes were doing to our family. Slowly killing it from the inside, depleting them of money and time. My break only took my chances of prolonging it.

My toes are ugly things, with bruises and red marks from my practice. And I tell myself,  _there's nothing to gain from doing this to yourself; throw out your shoes and get over this obsession that is leading nowhere_. I've come close, dangling my taps over the dumpster outside. They'd make such a loud sound, metal on metal, but it might just free me.

I focus my thoughts back to the task on hand, plucking off my shoes one at a time. Kilorn...

 _Enough._ First thing tomorrow, I'm going pickpocketing on Wall Street. To collect however much money it'll take to pay off Farley to keep Kilorn at bay. It's easily the most profitable area of New York, and if I'm careful, I could make a couple thousand, between the money and jewelry I'm able to snatch.

But also easily the most risky. The last thing I need is to get caught, end up in a police station for another overnight stay. But I'll do it anyway. I'll do it, for Kilorn.

He will not share a life of forgotten hopes with me.


	3. Chapter 3

As each day begins, I take a long, slow sip of my dark coffee, scanning over the newspaper tossed in front of our door minutes ago.

The warmth does little to ease the growing discomfort in my stomach, butterflies pounding against it. Wallstreet. Oh gosh.

The rest of my family is either sleeping or attempting to get a few more moments of rest in. I, personally, like to get up early. Though the three of my siblings aren't the loud, fighting type, having time alone in this little apartment is hard to come by, and the mornings are the only hours I seem to find some semblance of peace.

Reclining back on the couch, I flip the page of the paper, paying half-attention. It'll be another hot day today, based on the humidity already felt in the air, creeping through the thin walls. Construction closings and the weather are the newpaper's areas of interest, as those are the things that help me plan my pickpocketing for the day.

But today...

I neatly fold the black and white paper, putting it on the narrow table in front of the couch, and head to the kitchen.

At least Mom and Gisa keep the kitchen well-stocked. If it wasn't, Bree or Tramy would probably end up killing somebody, with the rate that they consume food.

 _Not that they help pay for it_ , I think with a cringe, reaching for the cereal at the top of the fridge. Bree and Tramy are both currently unemployed, putting the pressure on me to pickpocket more, risk more. My two brothers have jumped from job to job, ever since finishing high school with barely passing grades.

They aren't unintelligent, Bree and Tramy. Just unmotivated by school, like me.

Farley, that woman I had the misfortune and luck of meeting yesterday, will now forever know that I am a high school dropout. It shouldn't bother me as much as it does, when Farley looks rougher than me, with her cropped hair and neck tattoo. But I still wish Will hadn't told her that. It doesn't matter, it's in the past, and it's my fault.

My fault that I've probably ruined my chances of having a decent life with that choice.

It's been about as long as I've stopped dancing in the studio as I haven't gone to school. In the state of New York, the legal dropout age is sixteen. I was sixteen years old when I broke my leg, and after all of that pain, the  _feeling_ of my long-sought dreams being demolished, I simply didn't return for eleventh grade.

Sighing, I stop remembering last year long enough to pour my cereal, reach into the fridge to get milk. The kitchen, very similar to the rest of our apartment, is old, floorboards and hinges creaking. There's no island for workspace, just the tops of cabinets where there isn't appliances or food.

I take an apple with me to the living room and continue my train of thoughts.

No, that studio couldn't have been good enough to mold a professional ballerina. Too scared for an answer, I never actually asked my instructors if I was good enough. I doubt I was. And besides, it hardly matters anymore.

Apart from my stretching and muscle training I practice tirelessly, I run four times a week in Central Park, and more for each time I get caught stealing on the job. With the security cameras lining every street in Manhattan, those additional steps add up. The crowds are usually adequate to get lost in, but once in a while... they really make me run for it.

No, it's not an honest way to make money, and I'm not happy to call myself a felon. But at least I steal from the rich and give to the poor, the poor being my family.

I walk miles a day to get to the nicer, busier parts of town. Sometimes that's part of my run, depending. Besides for rarely having enough money to be worth it, the people on the north side of the city are expecting it, bracing themselves for it, and ready to fight back.

On a rare instance, I've seen people in my neighborhood try to rob somebody else, only to end up being the one who gets mugged. And those have been full grown males.

If I ever get caught, and my victim fights back, there'll be people to see it. To help me, even if I don't deserve it.

It's dangerous alright, but it will indeed  _always_ be worth it. With Mom as a hotel maid, Dad testing out yet another online job, two of my brothers unemployed, and a third one gone... the money and goods I bring in benefit us, even if my parents won't deign to admit it.

My parents, too, were raised in impoverished households. They say that children, for the most part, will make the same amount of money as their parents do. So far, that statistic holds true for my family, my siblings. For me. Awful, vicious cycle.

From my understanding, Mom and Dad were just like their children. Grew up in a poor New York neighborhood, didn't bother trying in their academics, because they knew they'd never get anywhere with the kind of education their crappy public school was offering.

Gisa, out of all of us, is the talented one. Someday, she'll be good enough to open her own shop, sell beautiful dresses and skirts and whatever else she feels like sewing. For now, she continues school, does well in it, while still honing her craft during her lessons. If Gisa's any good, which I know she is, then she'll get a scholarship into a fashion school, and my parents will use any drop of savings they've accumulated all these years to help pay for the loose ends.

My sister has dreams of being the best at her art. I don't have the stupidity to question it for a second. I've seen her designs; she's good. She's great.

I plunk back down on the couch, taking a bite into my apple. Eyeing the phone set next to the paper I discarded on the table a few minutes ago, I release a new sigh.

Sooner or later, I'm going to have to check in on Kilorn, via text or a knock on the door downstairs. I've been avoiding it since yesterday, when we departed each other a block away from his job. Old job.

He has to be given space, first, before I try anything. One night isn't enough, either. I'll wait a day or two, let him cool off, and optimistically, I won't have to talk him out of anything.  _The Scarlet Street Fighters cannot be found_. Unless Kilorn already has an in with them, it's going to take him a little bit of effort to track that gang down.

 _Good. Make him work for it, if he's so intent on destroying his life_.

The boy most likely is thinking that it can't get worse, when his dad is gone, having died years ago to alcohol. His mom's barely in the picture, having left him a few years ago. She sends money once per month, enough to cover rent and food. I've offered to give Kilorn money, but he always refuses.

Alone in that tiny apartment, smaller than mine. He'd love to put his life on the line, if it means getting out of there, getting revenge on the rich, right their wrongs, like the Street Fighters preach.

Living in East Harlem... changes you. Everybody knows that very few of the rich, living up in Billionaire's Row, made it there through complete innocence. But living in this apartment building, in the slums of New York, makes you realize how unfair it is. I may not be making my money honestly, but most do. The barons lounging up in those high rises aren't. They've climbed to the top on the backs of others.

It makes you very, very angry.

So I sympathize with Kilorn. But I can't allow him to do this.

The door to my room groans open, Gisa emerging from it, rubbing her eyes. Her red hair is bedraggled, her night clothes wrinkled. The one time of day I get to see my little sister look anything but cute and put together.

"Morning," I say, pretending to look at the newspaper again.

"Morning," she grunts back, the word a mumble. Gee isn't a morning person, but her lesson is early today.

She takes the subway to get there, just past Wallstreet. It's far away, but she practices from one of the best institutes in the city, while still being fairly affordable.

I rarely take the subway myself, though I have to walk far and wide to get to my destinations.

"Do you mind if I come with you on the subway today, Gee?" I ask my sister, her back facing me as she pours her own cereal.

"No," she responds. "Where are you going?"


	4. Chapter 4

"Haven't you filled your weekly quota for stolen items?" Gisa catechizes into my ear with snark. Today, she wears a blue pinstriped dress, pieced together with transparent buttons down the middle, cutting off at her knees.

Another benefit of her job; there isn't a scrap of clothing in her closet that wasn't sewn with her own fingers. Her skills have saved us hundreds of dollars since she hasn't bought new outfits in years. "Besides, I thought you gave up hunting for fools on Wallstreet after security arrested you for a week."

I roll my eyes at the memory. Three years ago, I was getting confident in my pickpocket talent and decided, like the fourteen-year-old fool I was, to try my tricks on New York's finest. What I didn't know, was the stretching avenue's workers had workers of their own. Men and women of such status aren't dumb enough to roam around without covert bodyguards. Apparently.

I landed myself a week of time in the NYPD headquarters. Any other family, parents who had a scrap of money on them would have been able to bail me out. But payday had come and gone, and my family was caught in a dry zone of cash. At least the police had the decency to give a poor teenager a secluded cell. But if they really had decency, wouldn't have they let me go with a little slap on the cheek and a warning?  _Not for the lowly citizens of New York, I guess._

"This week is different, Gee," I say to her, silently hoping she doesn't ask me more.

Warily, my sister gazes upward at the buildings that scrape the sky. The streets here are compact, squeezed in with grey, concrete jungles on both edges of the sidewalks. Despite the sun scorching the earth without restraint, the streets are shadowed to a degree, darkened by the structures. An American flag sticks out on a pole two stories above us, paired with a brown flag staggered several feet away. The foreign banner carries white font, probably of a business or someone's last name.

Gisa halts, and her black leather boots make a scuff on the pavement. She leans against a construction cone set between two others. "My lessons aren't for another hour. I usually get there early to sneak in some extra practice, but it's not as if that's expected. Why are we here? Didn't Shade basically diagnose you with PTSD after you did this last time?"

Sighing, I lean onto the cone next to Gisa. Folk like us, me for sure, stick out like sore thumbs in this part of town, designated for tourists and the upper-class. The poor don't have reason to be here. As always, good intentions or not, Gisa insists on being difficult by leaning against the cone, like cattle awaiting slaughter.

Or a doe, awaiting slaughter by wolves. The Wolves of Wallstreet, they call them.

"Kilorn," I start and trail off, clueless on where I should begin. Has she even heard of the Street Fighters? "He lost his posh job yesterday. And now that he's not making money, he feels that he doesn't have a function. He's going to try to join the Scarlet Street Fighters, Gee."

Her brows knit together in confusion, and my little sister tugs at a loose seam on her hip. Unlike her, to slowly ruin her artwork. Gisa doesn't allow distress to enter her features, but that doesn't mean I can't pick up on other telltale signs. She hits her feet against the ground rhythmically; it isn't like Gisa to move idly either.

"What does that have to do with why we're here? Are you going to pay Kilorn off to stay out of it?"

"Not exactly." I know better than to try to bribe Kilorn. He'd take it as an insult more than as free money. "I met someone in Will's store yesterday. She's a member of the Fighters, and a high-ranking one, I'm pretty sure. She said that she won't take incentives." And I proceed to tell her my logic.

Diana Farley's gang, just as any illegal band of people, needs supplies. Supplies cost money. If I can snatch my hands on a couple jammed wallets, a couple credit cards, she won't have the restraint to reject my offer the second go-around.

"We already have one brother who might as well be lost. And Kilorn, blood aside... you have to stop him, Mare." Gisa pushes away from the neon orange cone and hops onto the sidewalk, holding a thin hand out to me.

I accept it gladly, happy to see her approve of my actions for once. "Work's not too far, is it? Go get in your extra practice. Meet me back here in an hour."

She offers a curt nod of affirmation prior to scampering off across the way. While I often think the girl has a sort of desire that prevents her from ever clamping her mouth shut, this won't be the case. Kilorn won't forgive me if he finds out what I've done for him, even if I save his ass in the process.

Today, my finest clothing was ferried out from my closet, but my appearance pales in comparison to the women I see exit monsters of buildings, adorning brand names head to toe. Pencil skirts, form-fitting dresses, and pantsuits breeze by as I walk further into the heart of America's commerce. My body is bound by a bleak and simple gray dress, and my toes grow numb in a too-tight pair of boots.

There are a few dance costumes I could've worn for this, though Mom had me sell them awhile ago for some additional cash. It must've been a hard month.

My work can be entertaining, at least. I inwardly snicker at the dumb businessmen and see all types of interesting events. Men yelling at each other, unmistakably over money and women. There's a band of protesters across the street crammed with traffic, but their voices are silenced by car horns and the arguments. From here, I can't even tell what they're protesting.

With my venue, my nerves are taut and my stomach rolls with rancor. Each of my catches is planned with a careful and wary glance at their surroundings; potential guards, security cameras, et cetera. That's why I watch the others; my environment with such interest.

Before long, the worn canvas purse on my shoulder contains five wallets, two watches, and one diamond bracelet as I cross the street and continue onto the next block. I'll dump the credit cards onto Will, though most will be frozen. The watches and bracelet will amount to a thousand at best... and I couldn't say that there'll be more than another thousand dollars in the wallets. There's not much to be known on the Scarlet Street Fighters, but anyone could assume they're able to collect that amount tenfold. Farley will laugh at me and pat my head if I come to her with this.

_Then keep going, genius._

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I convince myself to do just that. Though I'm skilled at my craft, it doesn't scare off the fears my hobby brings. The longer I stay, the bigger the chance of each of my victims grasping the fact that their belongings are missing; the bigger the chance the police have of arresting me.

I've had multiple run-ins with the pigs, and from my understanding, the more robbed goods I have on me, the deeper the mess I'm going to get myself into.

"What the-" a women a couple of feet from me voices loudly.

No. I didn't take from her...

For once, it's not me who's committed the act. Wallstreet is suddenly a photograph of inanimate denizens all with phones inches from their foreheads. Did they all get the same notification?

The ordinary discord has momentarily ceased, rendering me useless. It would be odd if a single teenage girl moved throughout the halted bodies.

Covertly as I can, I sneak my eyes over to the nearest phone, only to find a half-familiar face plastered on the screen. The woman holding the device shifts it slightly, allowing me to see it at a better angle. "Thanks," I murmur quietly and quickly, intent on hearing what she has to say.

A news anchor that I recognize stares at me grimly through the screen, the terror I feel written into the deepest creases of her face. In the corner of the screen lies bold lettering, "BREAKING NEWS." Seconds later the headline changes to say, " _NYC Businesses Vandalized and Threatened."_

Maybe the woman who speaks is married to a rich husband whose she's concerned for. She's about ready to pull her hair out. "From the three identified attacks, they seem to be concentrated in the southern half of Manhattan, but past that, a pattern has yet to be identified. If you're near a massive commercial space, my team and I urge you to move to somewhere safer until these criminals have been apprehended. This could be the first of many attacks."

A sign on my left has the word "WALL," in all capital letters, and "ST," in a smaller print.

But I haven't finished my work.

"The buildings' interiors have been badly damaged, with estimations of millions of dollars of destruction. Though the footage hasn't yet been delivered to us, it is to be assumed these criminals broke in overnight." The anchor turns to the side, listening to someone off the air. Her face pales considerably, to the shade of a terrifying porcelain doll.

Following her announcement to evacuate points of interest, people begin to shuffle off the streets frantically. Some sprint, others run and walk. That hardly interests me; their receding wallets do.

Whether for my sake or out of her neglect for safety, the woman I stand next to remains. And when the woman on the net returns from her chat, she straightens her spine. "It appears," she starts, gulping. It unnerves me that the trained reporter looks the way she does. "An organization has claimed this attack on New York as their own. The Scarlet Street Fighters, a locally based radical group has taken responsibility for this series of planned-"

The phone goes black for a blink before a new face comes onto the display. The woman has cropped blonde hair, with cold and blue eyes. The rest of her is obscured by a bandanna, scarlet as the blood in my veins. Farley. If you didn't see her prior to this recording, you wouldn't recognize her on the streets.

She doesn't introduce herself or bother with any finesse.

"For far too long, the lower class have been pushed away; ignored. The upper class, the one-percenters, are to blame for this. The taxpayers' money is used to make your buildings taller and prettier, rather than to employ the unemployed and fix the houses that are rotting from the inside out.

"Your empires will rot in the same fashion. We will grow into every sector of this city, corrupt, and slaughter the profits of those undeserving. You kill the innocents who know too much, fire those who are hardworking and cheat the system to take more money than you already have. An obsession. Until you all agree to this change, to end the unfairness, you will suffer Hell served upon a golden platter. Rise, Red as the dawn."

And that is all before the woman slides her phone into a jean pocket and runs off. I gasp a breath of annoyance, though I doubt there was much more to the message.

The message was curt and dramatic at the same time, and I wonder, just what the Scarlet Street Fighters did to those businesses in the night.

"Mare!" Gisa yells in my direction, swerving the block she disappeared around fifteen minutes ago. "Are you alright?"

I nod, more mentally shaken than physically. I return the gesture by scanning her body; her flawless face and dainty dress are perfectly intact. And while I desperately try to focus on Gisa, my mind drifts to a thousand places.

The Scarlet Street Fighters managed to break into multiple high-security complexes without issue. From what I can tell, not a single one of them was compromised, and whatever they damaged induced quite the panic. How... how could a clan of ragtag brutes come up with the money to sneak past security in the first place? They must be much better connected than I initially thought, not merely petty felons.

So powerless. And I have nothing to offer her.

I must wear fear because Gisa takes me by the wrist with a motherly care radiating from her. The streets have become a ghost town, with only me, and Gee, and a group of men on this block, with a couple wandering down the next. They hurry, most likely worried about their businesses.

"We're not done. Not yet." Before I can blink, my sister is charging ahead of me, right towards the outcropping of men.

I open my mouth to say something.

And like the little amateur she is, Gisa slips her hand into one of the men's coats at the back of the pack. He looks tall and young from here, and my jaw clenches. Her first correction: choose the weakest link. In this case, that would be the stocky, slow-walking man on the other side of the group. It doesn't work consistently, but she'd have a better-

We're the only damn people on this street, the workers, tourists, and protesters all gone. Cars still inch through the streets, but their horns don't blare anymore. There's no sound, no uproar to hide what she's doing. Even I wouldn't dare it.

There's nothing subtle with the way Gisa moves, and her face is contorted in hard determination.

Even with the men adorning frantic expressions on their faces, her target's hand instantly clamps around my sister's wrist with a sickening speed. I finally locate my sense, and move my feet.

He-not so much out of cruelty but on instinct- throws her to the ground. Closer up, the man must be in his early thirties.

Gisa lands hard on top of her hand and screams into her shoulder in an instant, my mouth still so stupidly open.

I hardly process it, don't allow myself to think about how that's her sewing hand.

He stares at her, almost with a bored expression, as if this happens often to him. It probably does. Any men heading to work in this district of New York are bound to be rich, undoubtedly carrying a few hundred with them everywhere they travel. Though... though it must not be often that somebody tries to pickpocket this man with the same bold audacity that Gisa just tried on him.

"Get your sister under control, girl," he says to me with a snarl. The man doesn't seem to notice how Gisa's hand is contorted, along with her mouth, bent severely into a pained frown.

Several of the men look at me with murder, and I don't argue. They won't pay, won't fix it, even if I get down onto my knees and beg them.

I'm beginning to see reasoning in the Street Fighter's philosophy. The rich don't care about us. We're already dead to them, and our lives have hardly begun.

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

I took her home, barely glancing into the foyer when I opened the door for her. Is it my fault? I should've grabbed her wrist before that terrible man had the chance, and hauled her away. But I froze out of fear.  _Coward_.

Mom and Dad will tell me that it isn't my fault, but I won't believe them. And neither will they, if I've learned anything from my seventeen years living with them. They'll put on their sad smiles and hug me to my heart's content, though that doesn't change my obligations; my responsibilities.

Since the day we had to sell our car, I've had the task of protecting her the moment we leave the house. The rest of our family doesn't even know that I allow Gisa to walk herself to work after we reach the outskirts of Times Square.

What breaks me in a million ways, is that we don't have the money or insurance to take her to a decent hospital. Rather, we'll have to let it grow together on its own, and hope for the best.

Now I walk the streets of my neighborhood, which I've long since lost the fear of.

And have not forgotten my mission.

If there was a point, I'd be back on Wallstreet by now. But due to the attacks, everyone has fled back to their homes, abandoning the areas of interest in this town. I'm not bound to make much, but one man's trash is another man's treasure. I'll make a few bucks and snag a nice bracelet for Gisa.

An apology.

I stalk by the local tavern, known as the GrAveyard. The front buzzes with beer logos, alight in red, blue, green, and yellow. Even in the dim lighting, it's visible how badly the windows are in need of a washing. But its name never deters, and I ponder going inside of it. Bars are a goldmine, and one never knows how many drunken and idiotic rich folk have found their way to this dump.

Before I enter, I snag a reach into the pocket of a loiterer, blocking one of the signs.

As I reach his wallet, a wickedly quick hand clamps my wrist, just as that stranger did Gisa.

"Thief," he says with eyes a beautiful red and gold.


	5. Chapter 5

I don't reel backward or fight the stranger with molten eyes as his grip tightens, twisting around to face me completely. Just stare at him, assessing his strengths and weaknesses, madly pulling together a plot on how I'm going to get out of here in one piece. "Obviously," I say with an edge of humor.

He must be a year or two older, young, but the man is still a foot taller than me. Hardly anybody I know is shorter than me. His inky black hair glistens in the moonlight and though he wears a black sweatshirt and loose fitting jeans, his jaw is sculpted out of rock and his hand on my wrist is solid iron, leading me to believe the rest of his body is just as muscular as the bits he's revealed.

So strength will not be a weakness when I try to escape, then.

The stranger watches me, too, and something about the way he eyes my generic and now dirty dress bothers me. He looks to my shoes, which are equally disappointing, and then the gold travels up to my face, soaked in pity.

His hand releases my wrist, and it drops limply to my side. Confusion surges through me, and then some as he reaches into his jeans pocket, pulling out a crisp hundred dollar bill.

"Take it," he says, nodding to his own money.

I merely stare at the bill, half shadowed in the scope of nearby lamplights and the brilliant city two miles south. Against the indigo sky, the buildings shine brightly, each of their windows acting like a star. The stars' reflections shimmer on the East River, to the left. I rarely brave downtown Manhattan at night, though a pretty penny would come from my adventures if I ever dared to. There's simply something about the city during the midnight hours that unnerves me, knowing what can happen to young girls in the dark.

It's no safer, here, though. The buildings certainly aren't as menacing, small and fracturing and spray-painted, but bad things happen here, too. I remind myself of that.

Shuttering, the man in the hooded sweatshirt bleeds back into existence, his hand nudging the bill into my hand. "Why?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "You need it more than I do. Unless of course, you're some petty thief who thinks stealing is a fun game. But I get the impression that's not the case."

"Thank you," I say, biting my tongue to avoid a witticism. God, this man has the right to call the cops and have them arrest me, but instead, he's giving me money. "And it's not, by the way."

He starts walking in the opposite direction of my apartment, but faltering, the man turns back around to face me. "My name's Cal, by the way," he says. "Let me walk you home-it's not safe to be out here so late at night."

"Mare Barrow," I reply, though I should know better than to give Cal-the man I just attempted to steal from-a last name. He holds out his hand to shake mine, but I cross my arms. "Somebody with the likes of your wallet shouldn't be out here so late, either. You may look scary in that hoodie of yours, but the men in that bar are ten times worse, I promise."

Cal drops his hand, neatly tucking it behind his back with the other. He steals a look at the bar, the windows as dirty as they were five minutes ago. "I can take care of myself. Yet you were going to go in there?"

Shrugging, I start into a walk down the cracking street, not waiting to see if he'll follow me. "I've learned the tricks of the trade over the years. Besides, most of them are too drunk to stand, let alone assault me."

With his height, Cal has no trouble in the least catching up to me and slows into a steady walk once he does. "Over the years?" I have half the mind to snap at him for interrogating me like this, judging the things I've done to take care of my family when they can't fend for themselves. The sole reason I keep my lips sealed is because of the money he's given to me. "You're not older than eighteen." Sadness for me is traced in his tone.

"Seventeen," I say, craning my head to look at the man I've barely met. "And my family needs the money I provide for them, questionable or not. For some logic, I suspect yours doesn't. You're not from around here, are you?"

Cal becomes interested in the pavement, his eyes glued to the ground. Ashamed? "We have good-paying jobs. And no, I'm not."

The way he maintains his shoulders, relaxed and pressed backward, reminds me of a dancer, a habit I still keep up with to this day.

When Cal comes to terms with the fact that I don't plan on initiating another thread of conversation, he says, "Well, as I don't live here. Tell me, do you like East Harlem?"

An idle piece of conversation and we both know it. My knees nearly buckle under me, but I keep walking, the distance between the apartment and me closing ever-so-quickly. Nobody, nobody likes living here. And maybe Cal sincerely means the question, but I can't help but find it hilarious. The buildings in this part of the city are ancient and rundown, and fights break out every time a streetlamp stops working.

"Does anyone?" I ask a question for his question, pausing on the sidewalk to motion at the stout brick buildings. "My only consolation is knowing I don't live up in one of those fancy penthouses in Hell's Kitchen, my wealth built off others' downfalls. Besides, I don't spend much time at home anyway. My profession demands many hours."

His throat bobbles and I wonder if I've hit a nerve. Cal can't be overly rich-he'd be spending his nights fine dining and partying otherwise-but maybe he sees things differently than somebody who's had seventeen years to become jaded at the system.

"Tell me," he says. "Is there anything you like to do? You know, other than pickpocket from innocents and harass unwitting men?" Cal cracks a smile.

I huff, glaring at him. Still, that hundred burns a hole of guilt in my pocket. "I used to dance," I whisper, and his eyebrows raise. "I was good at it, too, my teachers told me. But things don't ever turn out the way they do in between the crisp covers of the bookstore's fairytale novels." Then, not having any obligation to tell him about my life, I explain to him how everything has gone to shit and hell since the day I broke my leg.

Cal listens, probably much more enthralled than a stranger should be. His ears are perked as I tell him how I cried the afternoon my parents pulled me from my dance lessons, how over time my pickpocket jobs have gotten more and more lawless, and how just today, my sister broke her hand, the only one of my siblings who might've ended up doing something worthwhile with her life. Now, she won't be able to sew for months; years, if it's that bad.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, and looks me fully on. "You had a real passion, Mare Barrow. Mare Barrow. I'll have to remember that." There's a glint in his eye that I don't quite understand, but I don't think I'm meant to understand it. "I'm truly sorry."

I bristle at his sympathy as Cal awards me another hundred dollar bill for exposing myself so stupidly to him, but I allow him to shove it into the outside pocket of my bag. I shouldn't accept it, but it would be even more stupid not to.

"Don't feel bad for me, Cal," I say under the lamplight a block away from my brick-red apartment, where Will's store window still gleams. "There are worse lives to live."

At that, we part ways, never to see each other again in a city of eight and a half million.

 **< ><><><><><><><><><>**  

Sitting on the cement rim of my apartment, six stories above the street, I gaze outward. My legs dangle over the edge, but my palms brace the rest of my body, careful to keep my balance.

Mom gave up in reprimanding me off this roof ages ago. And though I don't take pleasure in making her worry about me, after everything I've gotten myself into, sitting up here, as close to the stars as I'll ever get... there's something freeing about it. The wind blowing from the Harlem River-that eventually becomes the East River-plays with my hair, and though the scent isn't particularly great, I don't focus on the less glamorous parts of my neighborhood. Not right now, at least.

Cal.

His face is already fading in my memory, being cataloged with everybody else who's come and gone.

Why did I tell him about all those things? He didn't offer up a bit of information on himself, just listened, a collector of others' memories.

It was off this very building that I jumped. It was from the fire escape connecting with Kilorn's window on the second floor.

Like Cal's face and memory, the feeling of dancing in the studio and on stage is slowly drifting away. It wasn't a high-end ballet company that I learned everything I know and l love from, but a simple studio that taught all forms of dance. But regardless of how famed the studio-that was always changing its name, experimenting to discover a name that would at last attract new customers-was, I loved it. Even when I was small and Mom and Dad weren't terribly concerned about the thirty a month they'd pay for my little-girl ballet class, I loved it.

Before my parents knew it, I started wanting to come back more, and promising to do extra chores, they let me enroll in the tumbling class. Then it was tap. At some point or another, I started jazz. But when I was eleven, it was then I started pointe.

While I complained about my ugly feet relentlessly to Gisa, pointe was my favorite. The absolute satisfaction I got from twirling on my toes was like nothing else, knowing how many years had gone into getting me there.

But it was expensive. I drag a hand over my face, remembering the glittering costumes and high-end tap shoes. The cost for hours at that studio just blocks away added up so painfully quick each week, yet Mom dutifully pulled out her checkbook every month, cringing at the money that went into my second education. At her shoulder, feeling so incredibly guilty, I'd promise myself to collect extra money the next day.

In a sick way, I think my parents were relieved when I broke my leg, even if it meant they had to pay for a cast and x-rays. Gisa's hand is one thing, but the way my leg had been twisted... we had to go to the hospital and stomach the bills. In hindsight, my parents had probably been looking for a way to  _break_ the news to me for months. The broken leg was just a convenient accident that allowed them a decent excuse. I'm surprised they managed to cover the costs for so long in the first place. For most of my time dancing, Dad didn't have his legs to work at his old job, just a collage of jobs he got and hated online, and Mom... she's been working as a hotel maid for years. 

It's a miracle they managed to keep me enrolled for so long. And I have to remind myself of that and the sacrifices they made. They love me. They do.

From my place on the rooftop, I can see the rundown studio with ease. There were only two rooms inside of it, one big and one small, but they achieved the same purpose. The barres glued to the rooms' edges adorned peeling paint, and the floor in the small room always creaked. I never talked to the other girls who danced there. They didn't take it seriously the way I did-they weren't stupid enough to think that a professional ballerina could come from a place like the one they attended. 

Though the street that touches its wooden doors is the best, safest way into the downtown, I avoid it at all costs. After I broke my leg, Mom marched to my heaven's doors one last time to deposit the final check. They never heard from us again.

It feels like a lifetime has passed since last spring, hardly a year ago, when I fell. 

At all costs, I make sure I avoid it. Especially because of the headteacher and owner of that place. She was my mentor, taught me everything that I viewed as valuable, she was...

A second mother I never had.

As though Mom can hear my thoughts, I look behind me to find nobody on the rooftop.

She never confirmed it, but I thought of myself as her favorite. When the other girls left our ballet technique classes, she always kept me after to correct me on the way I held my shoulders so that now I hold them the way Cal held his, corrected me on the way I pointed my foot, shifted my weight.

I don't think about her very often.

Sighing, I stand up on the roof so I can feel a little taller.

The eternal lights of the city sparkle in all their glory, and skyscrapers stick out of the earth like swords coming from their sheaths. As a little girl, still wearing my bubblegum-colored hair ties, she'd ask me:  _Why does the sun bother to set if they leave all those lights on?_


	6. Chapter 6

Early the next morning, I'm out of the apartment door, hopping down the carpeted stairwell that hasn't gotten vacuumed in ages. Trying my hardest to focus on the ugly floral patterned carpet as I descend to the first floor, I block out my sister's teary eyelashes and Mom, who didn't bother to hide her moans that ran far into the night.

It was a good decision to drop off Gisa without entry into my own home yesterday afternoon. Though I'm not particularly thankful for meeting Cal, either; his hand around my wrist haunted my dreams. But at the very least, I missed the immediate shock that must've dictated my family when Gisa walked inside, cradling her dead hand.  

Mom said it was broken in not one, but two places.

 _Coward._ I should've been there, at my knees and prepared to offer my most heartfelt apology. But instead, I ran, ran far away from my woes and responsibilities.

My face is greeted with already muggy and sweltering air, despite the sun having barely risen.

My profession isn't lawful, but for the years I've been at pickpocketing, there isn't a block of Manhattan I haven't seen. And the city's always changing and growing, and I doubt I'll ever grow tired of it. If I do, there are another four boroughs to explore.

Down the street from the apartment, two men bicker outside of Will's rival grocery store, and I turn my head down, pretending not to notice. Around here, watching gets you hurt. Killed, in extreme circumstances.

I slap my weathered and shoelace-fraying Converse against the pavement, heading towards the safer and more expensive parts of town, away from my family and away from that bar Cal was loitering outside of. There's nothing worth stealing in East Harlem. But if I did manage to find something  _worthwhile..._ somebody would make sure I pay for it.

Even though I wear a yellow T-shirt and my thinnest pair of blue jeans, giving myself the privilege of forgoing the red sweatshirt, I've decided each day for the past week and a half that I'm over July, its damp heat that boils the dumpsters in alleyways, and the way that the air shimmers as though everything's just an illusion. Hair clinging to my neck, I tie the brown and grey into a tail and continue my walk, still unsure of the areas I'll hit today.

Times Square will just be full of sweaty bodies, and though I could make another thousand on Wallstreet, that place is dangerous, and I'm not willing to test my luck again, even though-foolishly, I might add-I would've returned there last night, so desperate, had there been anybody outside.

But now, with a clear head, and especially after the Scarlet Street Fighter's attacks yesterday, I'm not going back for a long time.  _Diana Farley_. The thought of her name hits me, a brick in the head. I need to know more about her, about them, but not knowing where to start, I kick at the pebble at my feet.

It skitters further down the walkway, narrowly missing a parking meter on its way.

That moment, I decide to lift my sunken head.

Shade?

The man at the street's corner, fifty yards in front of me, looks suspiciously like my youngest brother, who hasn't been home in months. He holds a phone to his ear, and his brown hair brushes his forehead when he nods into his device.

Though his clothes are nothing like what Shade wore at home. My brother was always in workout shorts and sweatpants and only rotated between three or four shirts, each one blander than the one before. This man wears close-fitting khakis, a sleeved button-down, and some kind of work boots, along with sunglasses that block his eyes.

If that is Shade, then the eyes beneath his sunglasses are a rich amber.

One day, my brother just left the house. He's a grown adult, he has been for over a year now, but he  _just left_. The explanation Shade offered Mom over the phone on the third day he had gone missing was that he got a good job, but he couldn't live at home anymore. Mom started screaming at him, accusing him of all sorts of nasty things with that red-hot anger of hers.

 _"Drugs?"_ she asked him, clutching the landline in a bony and white hand.

 _"Did you join a gang?"_ she asked him, shaking the telephone so violently I thought she might drop it.

He spurned off the first allegation with contempt, but I still remember, listening in on the bedroom line, there was a slight pause after she wailed the second.

He hasn't come home since. Not for months.

Shade writes letters instead of visiting. Letters. Like the internet doesn't work and emailing doesn't exist. The text on the college-ruled paper is always and exactly one page long, never more and never less. And the writing is never about himself, but detailing the silly things he sees in various places, and questions. He asks so many questions about our lives.

The man deposits the cellphone into his khaki pocket, and slouching with the stance Shade always kept, he crosses the road.

I swear, picking up the pace. Maybe I shouldn't approach him right away... but follow him, figure out where he's spent all these months. Figure out if he really is part of a gang.

If Dad was here, venturing outside with his wheelchair for the first time in ages, he'd yell and scold me for following the man until I went deaf.

But Dad's not here, now is he?

My legs work as I make up the lost distance, but keeping an inconspicuous amount of space between us, I slow down once I've crossed the intersection.

He walks slowly, not in a hurry, as most New Yorkers are in, hands tucked in pants pockets. I quiet my footfalls, glaring at my shoes for their loudness. Gauging the buildings around me, neatly compact, I could scale up a gutter fairly effortlessly, though it might raise the attention of a few passersby across the street. But if I could get a decent look at his face...

"I know you're following me," he says over his shoulder, in the voice of Shade.

He turns around and I stop in my tracks, biting my lip. A quarter of a block is still between us, but that hardly prevents me from giving him a weary glare. "It shocks me that you venture so close to home after the things Mom said," I say, not knowing what else to  _say_.

I don't know how to react to the man staring at me from further down the sidewalk, sunglasses guarding his eyes. But that was his voice all right. I'm sure of it.

Sometimes I questioned to myself if he was dead or not. In the later weeks between his letters, I wondered if my brother was dead. If he had indeed joined some gang for whatever purpose and had gotten killed because of it.

Shade shrugs but closes the distance between us. It takes agonizing seconds, and in that time I think about what I'll tell him, how our entire family views him, and maybe, just maybe, I'll slap him for the stress he's put on me.

"Leave it to Mare to be patrolling the neighborhood in search of me," he says. My brother's lucky he has those sunglasses to protect his eyes, though. Otherwise, I'd be picking them apart, searching for the hidden regret I know is there. "My job carries me all over New York. Never thought I'd end up a block away from home, though."

"We both know I have other reasons to be out here in the middle of July," I hiss, pulling him into a hug anyway. I don't ask about his job. If Mom couldn't glean anything off him with her shrieks of motherly sorrow, I won't be able to either. My brother smells of sandalwood as I press my face into the crook of his neck. He only ever smelled of that rotten gym he worked at when he still lived with us.

"I won't ask you about your job if you don't pick on mine," I say, ending the hug too soon for the amount of time he's been gone. "I'm glad to see you, Shade."

Even as I say it, my heart beats erratically. It hasn't just been a few days, and I'm acting like that's what it was. Only because if I start screaming at him, the way that Mom would... he might run away. This is my only chance.

He pushes his sunglasses to balance on his forehead and grips my hand. "Glad to see you, too, little sis."

We begin towards Central Park, my hand in his. After a long while, he asks, "How's dance?"

The question I was dreading. He doesn't know, even though we take great care in detailing our letters back to him, sent to a random P.O. box in lower Manhattan. There are certain tidbits we leave out, a small, undeserved mercy we give him. When Shade's next letter arrives in the mail, we'll fail to mention Gisa's broken hand, too. "I don't dance anymore." The sentence is intended to be strong and chock full of conviction, yet comes out as a whisper.

"What?" Shade asks, raising his eyebrows in alarm. "But I thought you loved to dance." Out of everybody in our family, Shade probably understood me better than the rest. He saw the glare of determination and passion in my eyes when all Mom and Dad saw were the growing holes in their wallets.

"I did." My foot finds another pebble to swing at. "I do," I amend. "But a month after you left, to go wherever you did, I broke my leg. Those hospital bills were too much, Shade. Before that, I think Mom and Dad had already been looking for ways to tell me that dance was too much, too hard. And with my leg..."

"I'm sorry," he says, and his tone reminds me of Cal.

"You know, for the longest time I thought of you as selfish for leaving us," I blurt, finding the need to share the thoughts I've mulled over for months. "But after a while, my rage just kind of... dissolved. There's a fine line between being selfish and having common sense. I hope you like your job."

He nods, squeezing my hand. "Trust me, I have my reasons. Thank you."

Sensing he has to go by the eager glance he gives the next street over, I squeeze back.

This is what it's going to be, my reunion with my brother. Nothing but a short walk down the streets of upper Manhattan, a shallow conversation that has none of the words I want to say to him in it. I'd like to ask him questions, listen to his answers over a long period of time. Like to have the luxury of panicking and crying, begging him to stay even though it'll be useless.

I stay strong, forcing out a timid smile.

This is what we've become. What I've become.

"Go, Shade. Whatever your job is, go and do it." Offering him a timid yet encouraging smile, I let go of his hand, knowing that giving him my blessing is a terrible, horrible idea. "Go and save the world."

I might not see him again for months.

My brother smiles at me. "I promise that I will."

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

The walk home after talking to Shade went by slowly, though when I turned my back to snatch one last glance at my brother, he was gone. And my mind was in too many places to possibly make decent money, so now I find myself once again outside the apartment, meaning to go upstairs and check on Kilorn.

But I find myself staring at Will's shop window, at a poster I've never seen before.

It's anything but brightly colored, black and white, with a photograph of a dancer standing on her pointes in a totally black background under the text. Her shoulders are back, her head tilted down toward the shadowed floor, and she wears a white dress that reaches her shins, all while hands are neatly crossed behind her back. She is light whereas everything else is blackness and nothing.

An advertisement for the Manhattan Dance Academy, or Company, some call it, the bigshot owners of it with the name I could never remember.

I stare at the pointe shoes on the glossy paper, perfectly arched by the dancer's feet who use them. It's some kind of cruel joke publishing the new season of auditions in this part of town, it has to be. Nobody, even if they had the talent, could afford to dance there. It used to be a dream of mine to be a professional at the Manhattan Dance Company, but I soon learned that the scholarships to the school are rarely given, and impossible to attain by the poor in the first place. 

I've heard stories about their studios in the high rises, entire walls made of glass.

While their main bravado is ballet-the Company rents out Metropolitan Opera House for weeks in the spring-they also train in the other dancing styles I was familiar with.

It's not as though it matters.

The bell to the grocery store chimes and Will himself exits. "Begone, loiterer!" he chides jokingly, coming to lean against the glass. Vaguely, I wonder how long I've been watching the poster, willing it to go away. "What? You want to work there?"

I shake my head, still in admiration for the ballerina's arch in her foot. "I'm not good enough or rich enough to study dance at the Manhattan Dance Company, Will."

He laughs, slapping the paper with a wrinkled hand. "That's the point, Miss Barrow! Did you even bother to read the words? It's not an advertisement for auditioning; it's for a job cleaning their facilities. Maybe you should go back to school, girly."

I blink as if to clear my vision. Will's not wrong.

It's just an ad for a lowly cleaner's job, spruced up with a pretty ballet dancer.

"Oh," I murmur, and in anger for myself, I rip the poster off Will's glass.

Will says something about damaging his property, but the self-loathing drowns him out a thousand times over. Stupid, stupid, stupid for ever thinking that they'd put up a sign for dancers in this neighborhood. They probably don't even hold open auditions, and certainly wouldn't take dancers from dingy places like East Harlem. Cleaners, now that makes sense. People in these parts will work for any amount of money-no matter how depressing the work is or how little it pays.

The steps creak beneath me as my shoes pound against them, no longer interested in checking in on Kilorn.

Gisa and Mom are out of the apartment looking for medical supplies, undoubtedly, and Tramy and Bree are stuffed away in their bedroom.

The poster is slippery beneath my warm hands. And I don't know why I bother to hang onto at all, but soon enough I'm stuffing it under my bed with the rest of my forgotten dreams.

And I tear the plastic bin from under my bed. Hundreds of dollars worth of shoes, all half-used, just sitting in here, accomplishing  _nothing_.

That incessant voice in my mind's depths whispers at me to throw them away, to move on with a realistic life.

Instead, I put my pointe shoes on, and scale the fire escape-the very place that I destroyed my life-to the roof.

And I dance.

I dance until the sun dips below the horizon, and shadows bleed into the city.  I dance until tears stream down my face, at last truly remembering how it felt to live.

And I'm going to take that job, if only to spite the world.


	7. Chapter 7

Like all dynasties, having one location isn't good enough for the Manhattan Dance Company.

Grumbling my complaints to nobody particular, I clench the poster in my left hand and shield my eyes from the sun with the other.

In the summers, whoever owns this dance empire decides to base operations out of a building nestled into Times Square. Not in the heart of it, but close enough for there to be a steady stream of people and cars along the streets. I've passed by this place plenty of times before, but never paid it a bit of attention, deeming it just as marvelous as everything else on the block. But now-now it takes my breath away, knowing what it is and who the people are inside of it. Dancers.

Eleven stories tall and more than wide enough, the building must be ancient compared to the skyscraping glass and steel monuments overhead. But along with the hints of its age, modern architecture has taken over a good part of it, making it... classically advanced. The long panes of glass creating beautiful windows have a golden tint to them, like Cal's eyes, but there's nothing on the other side of them, just the reflection of the city street and cars and revolving doors leading to a taller building across the street, where I stand. Or so it appears. One-way mirrors for the dancers' privacy, I suppose.

It doesn't follow the code of the shimmering blue skyscrapers that litter the city. It's composed of warm colors, rather than icy gray and blue, but manages to loom nonetheless. Where the stretching panes of glass aren't, there are bits of red brick and steel.

There is only one column of bricks and supporting metal between each pane of glass, and a couple of rows to separate stories from one another, forming a tidy and elegant grid. The stories about entire glass walls are nearly true. The last two stories at the top are older, not adorning that same magnetizing glass the others have. There is more brick to them, coupled with cement to alternate between red and beige. Balconies too narrow for actual use are sewn into every other window, a quarter of the size compared to the ones below.

On the ground level, a single revolving door sits under a black marquee, and the words,  _Manhattan Dance Academy_ are embedded into its front, red and silver in a large and ornate font. 

Seeing the traffic light turn red at the intersection, I make a move to cross.  _Now or never_ , I told myself with an exhausted and near-shattered body after dancing up on the roof for hours yesterday afternoon.

The dancing helped, whether or not my body's happy about that decision. Made me forget about Kilorn and the Street Fighters, Cal and my sister. Shade.

At a closer look, the windows are trimmed with ebony frames and hooked lanterns protrude from the thin brick margins.

The street under my feet is hot in the midday sun, and I silently wonder if this heat wave will end anytime soon. The security guard under the marquee takes note of me before I finish crossing to meet the opposite sidewalk, his black eyes always watching and in wait. Though I wouldn't consider myself very threatening, I'm flattered that he takes me seriously as I approach him, the poster steadfast in my hand.

"This poster," I say, unraveling the darn paper, "was found taped to my local grocery store window. I'd like to be interviewed for the job."

He looks me up and down, from the light makeup I bothered with to the rundown Converse I've worn every day this summer. "Great. The job's yours. Just go inside and they'll set you up."

I quirk my brow at him. "That easy, huh?"

"Believe it or not, but people aren't lining up to get a cleaning job for minimum wage," he says with a touch of sarcasm I appreciate. I might just turn out to not hate this man, who isn't older than thirty-but is entirely bald.

It's not about the money, though we definitely need it. This place, even if it's as the lowest of the pyramid, is the closest to professionally dancing as I'll ever get. "Thanks," I mutter, casting an equally derisive smile onto him.

I step towards the gilded revolving doors that graze a fine marble floor, but the man stops me from entering by putting a hand around my wrist. Somebody else did that to me recently. "Workers go in through the side," he grunts, nodding down the street.

"Oh," I say, not in the mood to fight him. Fine. Their territory, their rules. I'm just here for the experience.

"Yeah," is what he responds with.

I turn around to face the intersection, rolling my eyes.

Though the Manhattan Dance Company is barren of the electronic screens and billboards every other place around here seems to adorn, it fits in just fine with its grandeur. A block or two one way or another, the crowds would be really bad, but here, I find my way to the intersection easily enough.

The glass and steel high rises advertise makeup and the latest movies, but none of it interests me, at least not in the way the Company does. They're all the same, so colorful my eyes would start bleeding should I stare too long. And had I grown up with any money, I might be interested in the boards, might find myself comparable to the people looking at them with such a hardcore adoration.

I always forget about the green gated stairs that lead to the subway as I turn the corner, the yellow of taxis and rainbow of cars running past, though not very quickly.

Something beautiful and grayscale flashes in my left eye. This place has never deigned to post advertisements on their buildings, even though every other building has them. I can't begin to imagine how much it costs to own a building in Times Square, but between their dancers' tuition expenses and the great wealth of whoever the owners are, they seem to keep the Company thriving.

Yet that doesn't mean they don't find other decorations for the walls.

No. Not decorations. Masterpieces.

Photographs like the one taken on my ripped and crumpled poster are written across canvases that stretch double my height. Their backgrounds alternate between pitch black and a medium grey. The dancers on them are beautiful creatures, sporting lavish costumes in the midst of flawless leaps and turns. Some of their costumes are on the order of traditional wear, the kinds of outfits that the ballerinas and dancers use in the annual ballet, but others are severely modern, women clad in tight jeans and heaping dresses that could never actually be danced in.

A shadowed male is portrayed on the last canvas, with jeans, and without a shirt or shoes. His face is turned from the camera, alluding to a mystery that I doubt I'll ever solve. A muscled back exposed, and arms with the same power splayed straight out to the sides, his left leg is stuck outward to be parallel with his arm in an effortless  _a la seconde._

I used to be that good. Maybe I still am. I didn't fall out of a single turn yesterday on the roof, though my body feels like it.

Assuming they wouldn't be stupid enough to keep their side door unlocked, I rap my knuckles on it three definite times.

Because of the constant noise echoing throughout the intersection and adjoining streets, I don't know if anybody is coming to the door. Thirty seconds go by, and prepared to knock again and then try twisting open the thing myself, I take a step backward as somebody approaches, the handle turning

Even the side doors have to be glamorous. The double set of doors have that same gilded framework encompassing them, and a couple of golden bars strike through the middle of the fogged over glass.

I should be spitting on their floors, not mopping them.

The woman who invites me in isn't incredibly young, but by no means is she an old prune. Just by her appearance, I can tell she isn't one of the wealthy. She must be another cleaner, or secretary, or something. Her hair is washed out, maybe from dying it too many times as a teen, but her eyes are bright, and she smiles at me as I step through the door.

"Ah, yes. They told me to be on the lookout for a wannabe cleaner. Nice of Security to send you to the side, eh? Name's Walsh. Ann Walsh."

"Mare Barrow," I say, extending my hand.

But she doesn't take it. "Are you even out of high school?"

"Obviously," I say, prepared for the question. Even with the grey at the end of my hair, there's no mistaking me for anything more than a teenage girl. "I graduated last spring."

Past the doors reaches a long and wide hallway made of the same marble I glimpsed at through the front.

But Ann cuts me off from any exploring I might've gotten to do, when she stops in front of an elevator, just as modern as the next. Given how it's tucked away back in this side hallway, I bet it's a worker's shaft. She presses the down arrow at its side. "The basement," I say. "Really?"

She says, "What? Did you think this job, clocking in at a stunning ten dollars and forty cents per hour, was going to be all glitter and rainbows?"

No. It's just... "No. I was just hoping to a have a second glance before you guys threw me in the basement."

The bell to the elevator rings, and the steel doors glide ajar. The inside is bland and tasteless, and somehow I bet the regular elevators in the main lobby are far more appealing.

Ann taps a button before turning to me. "Listen. I'm sure you could go and find work at a lotta' other places, places that pay more than this. McDonald's must offer more, for Heaven's sake. So if you want to leave, then leave. Otherwise, buckle up and listen."

I have to swallow my pride and knot the stream of words I want to say to her, but none of this is her fault. She's just another maid-or something like that-who obeys orders.

"I honestly don't know why we need another one," she begins, looking me up and down. "I thought we had enough workers, but apparently one of the big guys said we should hire another one or two. So now you're here. I'll show you the ropes over the next week, but if you can handle a mop, then you're all set." The elevator comes to a halt, and the doors open. "If you thought this place looked big on the outside, think again. It's bigger than big. Though now we're technically overstaffed, you'll still be expected to work fast but thoroughly, and cover lots of space."

The elevator leads to one room, and one room alone. A large, wooden supply room, compiled of shelves lining two walls. Nope. Not the ritzy, high-end start I was looking for. The shelves contain all sorts of cleaning products: industrial containers of soap; buckets of sponges; rags for dusting; and too many chemicals I'm not familiar with. Vacuums and brooms and mops are balanced on the third wall, and a floor polisher is tucked into the corner. In the room's center, carts like the ones maids use at hotels lie in wait to be brought up the main floors.

"The cellar is the one part they didn't renovate, so they decided to stick an elevator into it and call it the "Maids' Quarters. Soon enough, that sound of the floorboards creaking will be the worst sound there is.

"The top two levels are residential," she continues, grabbing one of the carts and wheeling it into the elevator. "Though it isn't one of those places that schools and houses students, they like to have us keep up the rooms. The dancers rent them out when they want, and a couple stay here all the time." she squeezes past the cart to fetch something left on the far shelf.

"Almost forgot. Here's your uniform." She hands me a basic scarlet shirt, kept together with three large black buttons, short-sleeved. The collar is black, and so are the folds of the sleeves, which will reach halfway to my elbow.

"Bright red?" I question but undo the buttons and pull it over my shirt for the hex of it.

"Dunno," she shrugs. Ann's outfit makes more sense. Black pants and the same garment I have, but in a light brown color. "They're all different colors, though not as...loud as that one. If I had others left, I'd offer."

I try to let it flow off me, like water off a duck's back. Besides, there'll be worse situations I deal with at this place, if I don't decide to quit after day one.

"I expect you have a pair of black pants?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Just checking," she says, returning the elevator. "Come on."

I follow her into the small box, having to suck my stomach in between the doors and the cart like Ann did. "So how did you wind up here?"

"Same as you. I needed work, and I figured why not work at some rich-as-shit ballet company? We get free tickets to their performances, too."

As great of a deal as it is-the tickets to any of their performances cost well over one-hundred a seat-I don't know if I could bring myself to go and watch them. I even removed myself from the street festivals East Harlem put on this summer, though the dancing wasn't more than a bunch of drunks violently shaking. Watching others dance, live out their dreams on that stage, is a nightmare.

The electronic number at the elevator's top flicks from  _B_ to 1, but it doesn't stop there. It doesn't stop until we arrive at floor ten, the lift at last coming to a stop. "They don't like us being on the main floors during the morning or afternoon. Either come in early to get your assigned studios done, or wait until late at night."

I almost cough up my own spit. Classes go on for hours on end at professional companies like this one. I won't be able to bet on cleaning until midnight. Dawn, then.

"There's a subway near my apartment," I say, walking by her side as she pushes the cart. Though I've done it plenty of times against rational thought, I don't like the idea of walking the four miles to work every day in the dark."I'll come in early. What time do you come in?"

"Four-thirty. I get my work done in the morning, too. My shift would be about done if I wasn't training the newbie cleaning girl." She winks at me. "Just so you know, they pay you for eight hours a day. You can get it done in the morning or the middle of the night, spend a half a day cleaning or fifteen minutes. The pay doesn't change. But I advise you, Mare Barrow, that you do a good job of cleaning."

I nod, getting her insinuation.

This floor is no different than that of a nice hotel, and I suppose that makes me no different than Mom, who's been working as a maid for  _years_.

I won't let it last that long. Just for a little while, to get a glimpse at the life I could've had, and to make some cash.

Gulping, I trail Ann as she pushes her maid's cart into the first room.


	8. Chapter 8

I stay working later at the Academy than I intend to that day.

And I think, if it were any other place in the world, I would leave sooner, wouldn't bother to admire the lovely pointe and tap shoes strewn about each room I come to clean.

Either way, it takes hours before I finish my assigned floor, having finished the second half by myself after Ann decided that I could handle a vacuum and left. Each room is more of a small apartment than a hotel room, equipped with a kitchenette, a dining table, and a sitting room.

The carpet beneath my feet looks the same as the carpet lining the stairs of my apartment, only newer and clean. It has those same ugly patterns on it, though, the colors mixing so loudly it's just a little painful to look at. It's funny, really, to be able to put a place so flawless as this into comparison with a detail of my apartment, on the opposite side of every spectrum.

Even the most perfect of dynasties have cracks, then. In this case, it's in the carpeting.

I silently smile to myself, pulling the worker's cart with me back towards the elevator shaft, still watching that carpet.

"You're truly certain you'll get the part?"

My body locks up, my head snapping to the opposite side of the hallway, where I just came from. 

"Of course I am, Mother. I've spent every moment of this summer locked inside with those private dance instructors from Europe you and Father insist on hiring. Not that I'm complaining. The heat has been grueling. Anyway, even if some pretty fool decides to challenge my position, I'm sure Father will find some method of persuasion to ensure my standing."

Receiving a strong, strong warning that I shouldn't be hearing whatever the girl and her mother speak about, I grab the feather duster off my cart and dart into a nearby room. But I keep the door a sliver of the way open, held in place by its latch.

The woman makes a clicking noise with her tongue. I don't dare a glance out into the hallway, especially because they must be near now, but she sounds to be in her early forties, while the girl couldn't be older than twenty. "Money may buy many things in this world, but it cannot buy talent. If you do not win that spot as his partner for the season, your father and I won't be pulling any strings for you. Get the part, Evangeline. And pay careful attention when I tell you that your father will be  _very_ displeased with you should you not meet expectations."

"Yes, Mother," Evangeline says, with less of the self-assuredness that she held before.

"Good." I flinch as I hear her voice through the wood, mere feet from me, but there's no push on the door, no ordering whatever cleaner is in here to get out.

Evangeline.  _Him_. Who are they? Evangeline is obviously the girl in the hallway, who's vying for a part with  _him_. She must be a dancer here, and a good one, too, if her mother's wishes were any indication.  _Him_... he must be a good dancer as well. A great dancer, maybe one of the men depicted in their muscular forms on the artwork outside the building.

There's no use in thinking about it, I know, even as I push open the door minutes later to an empty hallway and hurry back to the service elevator with my cart.

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

By the time, I flop down on my bed across from Gisa, it's five-thirty in the evening.

She also rests on her back, cradling her hand against her chest. Though I haven't asked to see it, the cheap white bandage covering three-quarters of the skin says enough. Along with Mom's fussing, asking for my sister to show it to her every hour, as though she'll be able to tell through the fabric if it's swelling or bruising.

What an odd few days it's been. It all started with Kilorn losing his job, my lanky and frazzled friend coming to greet me outside that restaurant to bear the news. Then I met Farley, Diana, whatever I should be calling her, by complete coincidence, only hours after Kilorn informed me of his plans.

Then Wallstreet and Gisa, then Cal. I haven't dared tell my family about Cal, not that they'd be especially interested. At first, I thought that I'd forget about him in a matter of days; I've met plenty of peculiar strangers in my time prowling the streets, but I've never bothered to talk with them. Really  _talk_ with them. There was just something... trustworthy about Cal and his pretty eyes. There's nothing about that exchange my family needs to know about.

"Where did you go today?" Gisa asks, lying so still, so tacitly, I forget she's here at all, a couple of feet away from me.

"Times Square. Same old, same old," I say, the answer coming out of my mouth mechanically. Though I didn't trouble myself with any pickpocketing today, not dropping any cash onto the dinner table as I came in, as I usually do.

Eventually, my family will figure out that I have a job, however brief I stay employed. At that point, I'll have to decide if I tell them the truth about where I work or make up a lie. It won't make a difference to them. Money is money.

Gisa's stuck on keeping up the small talk and opens up her mouth to say more. "A letter from Shade came today."

I raise my brows. Another little bit of information I failed to inform my family of. Yes, Shade's alive. Thriving, it appears, with his nice clothes and sunglasses. After everything else that has happened in these last days, I've barely begun to process it myself. I only wished that the two of us had gotten to talk longer. But he wasn't meant to see me and had places to go.

The chances of me running into my brother again are as low as me running into Cal.

"Did he have anything interesting to say?" I finally ask.

She shakes her head. "Same old, same old," Gisa repeats. "He said he's doing fine, asked us how we're doing, the bunch of us. Said he's going to start sending money, to help out, since he can't be here."

"I still wonder what his job is," I murmur in between my lips, sitting up. My bed creaks as I do so, the boring purple comforter crinkling. The room Gisa and I share is probably small for a single person, but I'm so used to it I don't know any better, or ever complain about it. We share this room well, never crossing the imaginary line that divides it in half.

"Mom still wonders if he's in a gang. I don't think Shade would stoop so low, but in this part of town, you never know," she replies, sitting up as well. "Supper's probably ready. Let's go."

Part of me wants to make fun of her for the way she slowly, carefully inches out of bed. It's just her hand, not her entire body. Not her leg. But I hold my lips tight, feeling guilt tickle my back, reminding me that I, directly or indirectly, caused this mess to happen.

I brought her to Wallstreet, froze when I knew that she couldn't possibly get away with the pickpocket job she tried to pull.

Her eyes soften, reading my thoughts. She shakes her head, cracking open our door to slip out. Not in a scornful, blaming fashion. As if say,  _it's alright_.

We've never been close, but that shake of her head still lifts some of the weight of my heart.

I leave the room, glancing out the shuttered window to see the sun in between the cracks. Down a few streets west, I met Cal. What an odd few days it's been.

Without another thought about any of it, I enter our sparsely furnished living room and move across to reach the table tucked into the back.

Tramy and Bree already lounge in the old wooden chairs enveloping the old wooden table, and Dad sits in his wheelchair at the head of the table. From the other side of the room, in the kitchen, I distantly hear the clanking of pots and pans as Mom makes the final preparations for our dinner.

Generally, Gisa would be in there with Mom, helping out in whatever way she was ordered. Now, she takes her place up beside Tramy, tucking her hand under the wood, as if she can hide it. As if she's embarrassed.

I settle down across from my sister and next to Bree a moment before Mom exits the kitchen, bowls of soup precariously balanced on a tray held in her hands.

 _Something bland_ , I think as she sets down the tray, sandwiching herself between Gisa and Tramy in the process.  _Something with too many vegetables._

"Minestrone soup," Mom says, offering Dad his crock first, then Gisa, and so on.

Dad mutters his thanks before picking up his spoon to dig in.

Only when Mom, at last, takes her place at the other head of the table, closet to me and Gisa, do I let myself eat, lifting my foggy and slightly bent spoon to my lips. Yes, yes, too many vegetables, paired with a portion of pasta and a broth. And as much as I'd like to complain, use the money I steal to go out for dinner just once, I don't. Not when the food my mother cooks is better than I could ever do.

Any fragments of conversation my family members offer up dissolve into awkward silence unnervingly quickly. We all say our piece, respond with a "good" when Bree asks us how each of our days were. Though nobody really means it. Gisa lied on her bed all day, Mom got home from her shift at the hotel a couple of hours ago. My brothers and father didn't do much of anything, as is the usual.

_I got a job. I can start providing, helping out finally._

_I saw my brother. Your son._

"Can I see the letter Shade sent?" I ask politely, shoving down the other ideas. I've spent my fair share of time mulling it over, deciding if my parents or siblings need to know that I saw Shade. But now that the letter came for the month and we have confirmation that he's still breathing, there's no good that would come from it. It's not like Shade told me anything important that pertains to my family.

They'd ask questions, questions that I surely wouldn't be able to answer. They'd get mad at me too, for not telling them sooner.

Yup. No real reason to tell them.

Dad hands me the paper, pulling it out from the pocket at the side of his wheelchair. "Enjoy," he says, eyes connecting with mine for a split second before he resumes eating his soup.

"Thanks," I return, my spoon plunking in the bowl as I unfold the piece of notebook paper.

One page. Exactly one page, as always, penned in stalky handwriting.   
  
  


_Dear family, I am alive. Obviously._

_I hope that life is treating you all fine as well, and I hope that I can come home soon, but I can't make any promises._

 

He goes on, writingand complaining about the heat, wishing for a big old storm to wash away that disgusting sweat that clings to almost everybody around town. He gives the address of a recently opened store Gisa might like and yells through the paper for Tramy and Bree to get off their asses and get some jobs that they might actually keep. 

He tells me to be careful on the streets. I wonder if he wrote this after he and I spoke a few blocks away from home. Not likely. That was just yesterday.   
  
  


_Again, I swear if this heat keeps going on, the dawn's going to start sweating red._

_Love and best regards, -S_   
  
  


"Thanks," I say again, passing the paper back to Dad.

"It'd be nice if he came home," Gisa says.

"You know he always says that," Mom says, probably a little more snappy than she means for it to be.

Tempted to suggest that I go down to that P.O. box in East Village, I force myself to take another slurp of soup. That address is the only way we can trace Shade, though if I ever attempted it, I'd have to time it right, possibly loiter around the post office for hours. Who knows if he even picks up our letters the day they arrive? Shade, street-smart Shade, would know to wait a couple of days so we'd fail in tracking him if we ever dared to try.

"Let's change the topic," Dad says, for once being the person to speak up. "Mare," he says my name, looking at me. "What did you see today? What did you do?"

I smile at the attention, knowing for a fact that Dad, not one day during all the years I've been at pickpocketing, has ever asked about the hours I spend doing my self-inflicted job.

Only to remember, that today I didn't pickpocket or steal. Had plenty of chances, on my walk back from the Manhattan Dance Academy, but rather decided to keep my hands crossed behind my back. I worked today, for actual, earned money.

So instead of telling him about about the geese I saw fight over popcorn in Central Park, or the damp street performers I saw causing a traffic jam in Midtown, I plaster that small grin on my face again, and say, "Nothing, really. Nothing important."

He nods, and although he asked it, there's a glimmer of that  _blame_ in his features, for Gisa. Maybe I'm imagining it, or reflecting how I feel into his face, but... I should've stayed with her on Wallstreet.

"Excuse me," I say, no longer hungry. For my dinner or for this conversation.

I head for my room, planning on locking it and going through my stretches and exercises until Gisa pounds on the door.


	9. Chapter 9

If anything, the air conditioning is what keeps me from quitting.

The work is redundant, full of mopping and vacuuming, but the rooms I clean are cool, the blasting air from machines the sound I most often hear, when all the dancers and teachers are on the lower floors.

So far, after the day and a half I've worked, I haven't had any more run-ins with anybody of importance. Though Evangeline and her mother can hardly be considered that, when I wouldn't be able to identify them in a crowd. Only by their voices.

This morning, unmotivated to leave the house before the crack of dawn, I decided that I would do my studio cleaning late at night, after all of the classes end. But when I got here, Ann told me, as luck would have it, I can get those rooms done in the afternoon, as everybody will be downstairs in the theatre for auditions.

What sort of auditions, what for, I don't know. How I'd like to watch them, though. Classical pointe, tap, hip-hop, contemporary... though I was never good at that one.

But if I sneak away for just a moment, go find a secret window to watch the performances from... I'd get caught, no matter how sly I am.

I walk down the hall of one of the residential floors, tugging my maid's cart with me. Today I've taken a tour of the rest of the building with Ann and gone through my assigned rooms up here, and now, noon approaching, I make my way towards the elevator.

Ann wasn't kidding when she said this place was big. I believed her at the time, the time being a day ago, but I had no idea... a dance academy could-or should-be so humongous.

It doesn't look as big as it actually is from the outside. Eleven stories tall, not narrow in either direction, but this place... this place. Ann gave me a map, and I'm still unsure if she meant it as a joke or not. But the fact that they have maps at their disposal at all should indicate something.

It's a sort of labyrinthine structure, staircases and elevators at every turn. While the carpet isn't the prettiest up here, the most gorgeous of marble decorates other floors, a warm, orange color.  In the studios, always cracked open to allow the cold air in, there's either wood or vinyl, surrounded by mirrors and glass.

This was, perhaps, what struck at me, bothered me a bit this morning when Ann guided me through the wide and long hallways of the Manhattan Dance Academy. The echoes of music, pounds of various shoes against the floor.

There was a countless number of studios we walked past. A couple dozen, to be more accurate. And no, they're not all for me to clean, but when we were walking in that moment, I just  _kept_ finding another around a corner, another instructor yelling at his or her students.

The shouting, the lecturing, wasn't much different from the sounds my teachers made at me when I was learning at my old dance center. Though the people in those rooms are ten times better than me, they continue to get criticized.  _Because in the world of dance, there is no such thing as perfect._

I slap the button alongside the elevator, leaning against its wall to feel the air flow in my direction.

Then I come back around, looking at my reflection in the murky elevator doors. A hideous red shirt for a maid, basic black slacks, black shoes to blend in.  _Not so different from Mom_. I promised myself I wouldn't work here for more than a few months, to help my family out, to get a  _glimpse_ , but after that, I'm done. A glimpse is a glimpse, and it's already caused me more resentment than I expected.

I won't become like Mom. I won't disrespect her hard work for our family like that. She works for us, so we have a chance. Even though I've already wasted it- _high school dropout_ -I won't end up as a cleaner. Just because I know she'd never want this life for me.

The doors to the elevator open with a chime, and I pull the cart in with me. The dancers should be downstairs now, to watch and to be watched, which leaves an opening for me to get my work done.

Ann, who is as much of a boss as I have, provided me with a list of my assignments, also circling the locations on the map. Half of the tenth-floor residences, a few hallways downstairs that need mopping, and three studios. I don't understand why we're supposed to clean the studios every day. It's excessive, but the owners want their property in tip-top condition.

Though on the other hand, they're rather nonchalant when it comes to hiring. One would think, a rich-as-shit ballet company, as Ann put it, would require background checks and fixed hours, but again, I guess not.

The elevator makes a noise each time I descend a level, and I keep a hand on the rail, out of an irrational fear. Falling.

At last, the lift stops, the doors sliding open.

A new hallway stretches to my left and right, made of attractive marble.

Aside from the stone and the creamy walls enclosing the space, there's little else to be seen. Intermittently, there'll be a stretch where paintings of Manhattan and dancers cover the walls, or of more of those photographs like the ones on the outside of the building, but for the most part, my surroundings are barren.

Yet it has enough elegance to it, with the coffered beige and cream ceiling, the smooth, warm-hued floor, and the constant doors, a new one on the wall every time I turn my head.

Mopping the floor isn't something I dare to do, though nobody should be coming up here for awhile. Either way, the last thing I need is to have an arrogant, pissed-off dancer coming here and scoffing when he or she sees there's an enormous puddle in the way.

So instead I glance at my map quickly, making my way for the first studio Ann marked off.

It's not far down the hall, and in no time, I'm pushing my cart through its door.

And I can't help the gasping breath.

The sun high above the horizon, it provides enough natural lighting in the room for the fluorescents above to be of no use, casting the room in a crisp, bright shade. The floor in here looks to be vinyl, mimicking wood with its dark brown color.

On the side opposite the floor-to-ceiling window, there's a continual mirror, not a mark or scratch on it. The adjacent two walls are empty, save for a set of barres at each of them.

The cleaning of the studios will be easy. Just dusting, maybe spraying the windows and mirrors when needed. An occasional mopping. But this room looks like it was just cleaned and has no use for me. It's the apartments and hallways actually in need of the maids, not these studios.

I leave the door open for the air and grab a rag off the cart, heading for the barres to wipe them off.

The floor is firm, not creaky, beneath my feet, as I wipe down the first set, giving the barres nothing more than a hasty runover. I cross the room to the second, the sun in my periphery the whole time. This room is large, equipped to contain a class of fifty dancers, maybe seventy for a calm session without too many stuck-out limbs.

I reach the other side, my hand coming down on the top piece of wood, rag between barre and skin. My feet rise up, out of instinct, and I have to settle myself, lowering my feet to the ground to finish my work.

In five seconds, I finish. Great.

Looking back to the door with no one in sight, I gingerly place the rag on the lower barre, my hands gripping the upper. 

Just once, because I'm not going to survive here if I can't walk into one of these rooms without dancing every time.

In shoes not meant for dancing, I rise up onto my toes, holding my core strong with shoulders back. So many rules. Head tilted up, a long neck, a back not arched... I could go on, but I hardly think about those minute details, ingrained in my memory, even when I haven't had class in so long.

Next, I raise my arms, put them in front of me, above my head, then back down. Bring my foot to my knee, turned out so I'm in a motionless  _pirouette._

God, if there are security cameras in here... I doubt I'll get fired, but certainly humiliated.

I come out of my imaginary turn, taking the little rag with me. Looking around the room, there's nothing else that's in dire need of the cloth or the other supplies in the cart. I should've asked Ann what I'm supposed to do in these rooms-other than dance-because there's nothing  _to do_ , nothing to clean.

The glass will eventually grow dirty, and the floor will eventually need a scrub. But not today. Nothing more than dancing will be done on this floor in the evening after auditions.

Just to say I did something in this studio, I lift the broom from its holder and sweep microscopic, fictitious dirt into the corner. I'll scoop it up when I come back again. Tomorrow. Again.

I walk to the center of the room, the thought cemented, repeating itself, in my brain.

Without thinking about it, justifying it as an experiment to see if I can turn in these black work shoes I'm wearing, I launch into an  _a la seconde_ , just like the male dancer was photographed in on the canvas outside.

I keep my eyes focused on the barre at the far wall, rotating my neck back and forth to spot. My leg comes in and out, shoes surprisingly smooth on the vinyl.

And I can't help but smile as I continue, remembering those rules:  _Head tilted up, a long neck, a back not arched, and more._

A ridiculous number of rules, if you ask me, but they've made me strong, and somehow, I keep turning, though I haven't had the time or space to practice, separate from my afternoon on the roof two days ago.

I continue, daring to change into a new turn, where my foot attaches to my knee, then shoots out, and so on. These, too, I execute without a noticeable flaw.

At last, I come out of the motion, shoes finally squeaking when I'm back on flat foot. 

_You're not a dancer. Not anymore. This studio isn't yours to practice in. So stop acting like it._

Heaving a breath, I make for my broom set near a corner, but not before a shadow flickers in the corner of my vision.

Faster than possible, I face the door, searching for a trace of the person I saw. Yes, yes, there was a person there just a moment ago, a man staring into the room.

Nothing. There isn't anybody at the threshold, and I run for it, holding out for the hope that I'll see a retreating figure in the hallway. My heart beats wildly, and not from the dancing.

I reach the door, barreling out of it and tossing my head both ways.

Nobody... no one and nothing.

Whoever he was, he must have seen me dancing. Otherwise he wouldn't have been standing there. A lowly maid, doing those types of turns... it isn't ordinary or natural. No wonder he ran away.

My cheeks flush and burn from chagrin. Yup. However low the chances of a human-being walking past this room in the seconds I was turning was, of course it happened, against the odds. My luck has always been poor. This is what I get, for the stupid fascination of pretending to be a person that I no longer am.

"Mare."

Ann says my name and I start, even as it's her voice that says it. Not some guy that I've never met, someone who wouldn't know my name.

I knit my brows at her.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she says. "Come on. I have something to show you."

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

She leads me down to the ground floor of the building, and we emerge from the maid's hallway into the lobby, people dispersed throughout the grand room. The ceiling is thirty feet aloft, and along the second and third story walls is more glass, this type revealing the classrooms through it.

Most of the girls wear leotards, tights, and some type of dance shoe or other. The men don basic T-shirts, with either form-fitting pants, like thick tights, or looser workout joggers. Everybody, regardless of gender, looks pristine, the girls wearing pounds of makeup and hair scooped up into high buns, the men with carved faces and glistening, oiled hair.

"I thought you said they didn't like the maids being around them," I say, recalling what Ann mentioned earlier.

"They don't," she replies, eyes focused on our surroundings. Not everybody wears dance clothes; others wear jeans and skirts and heels, hair not at all swept back. Private instructors and teachers from the Academy, probably. A few smothering parents, here and there.

"But," Ann continues, "auditions come around once a year. You don't seem like the kind of person who has an interest in working here for the rest of your life, so I figure you should see it now."

On my left are the main doors, where the hairless bodyguard stopped me from entering. To my other side, there's a grand staircase, red, gold, and black carpeting covering each set of stairs.

Ann goes ahead of me through the dancers, saying a polite "excuse me" whenever necessary. They don't notice us, caught up in their own conversations with one another. Along the way, I hear chatter about how they think they did, who they think has the best shot at making it.

"What exactly," I begin, almost under my breath, "are these people auditioning for?"

There's a few hundred in this room alone, and I imagine there are more, in the auditorium or hidden away in other rooms. A group of women stretches in a corner, pointing and flexing their feet as they go along. A larger thronging of dancers does a tap warmup, and somebody else hollers at them to keep it down.

Though nobody is particularly loud. It's all hushed whispers and murmurs.

"You don't know  _anything_ about this academy, do you? Auditions, every July. This will be in the paper tomorrow, Mare," Ann says, and I think she wants to stop in the middle of the room just to make a point. "These auditions decide who will be this season's principle dancers, apprentices, and so on. This place's specialty is ballet, but the best tap and hip hop dancers in the world have come here, too. It's a big deal, alright? If you want to know more, ask anybody here." She nods to the rest of the room.

The Manhattan Dance Academy. I know enough about it; it's among the best schools in the United States, if not the whole world.

"Sorry," I grumble, feeling stupid for asking the question. "I was just hoping for specifics."

Rather than enter one of the pairs of propped-open double doors-there are three of them-Ann veers off to the side, taking a short hallway, yanking a smaller entrance open, the same size as the door to my house, at the end. 

I'd complain again, Ann robbing me the chance of peering into those doors to see what must be a massive auditorium, if I thought it would get me in there.

On the other side of the single door stands a curved and near-black pathway, marble turning to wood in an instant.

 _We're going backstage_.

My heart flutters at the thought, worries about the man who saw me dancing suddenly a thing of the past.  _We're going backstage_.

The recitals and competitions my teachers insisted I try were a favorite of mine. I loved every moment in that studio, but on stage... there was no fear, not after the relentless practicing I did at home and in class.

What the dancers are doing here, though... today... it's not a performance. Life or death would be more accurate.

The narrow walkway goes on for a long while before it broadens up, transitioning from curved to straight, branching into different directions. Ahead, the main path takes a sharp right bend, heading for the other side of the stage. With a few more steps, the wall at my side breaks off, too-familiar sharp lights blaring in my eyes.

The corner of the stage. At the back of its wing, is where I stand.

In the spotlight, currently, there's a girl on it, leaping in her pointe shoes. I see all of her movements from back here; we're separated by twenty feet and gigantic stone pillars, cleaving the set and the wings apart.

There's no music, but she dances as though there is. I track her carefully, watching for critiques my instructors would've given her. Very flexible, but not as relaxed as she should be. Her shoulders are a little too high, and even from here, I can tell her jaw's clenched. Nervous. Petrified.

When a stagehand nearby notices Ann's arrival, he shoots forward, and I brace myself, thinking that he's going to kick us out.

A few others wait near the pillars, all of them girls in pointe shoes. They must divide the tryouts by gender and genre.

And no, they don't look at me, but the last thing I want is to get reprimanded in front of the dancers.

"Ann," the stagehand says, resting his hand on a radio at his belt. "One of the lights up there," he points upward, past the rigging to the wooden beams, "is shot, and my guys are on lunch break. Will you come up there with me to hold the bulb while I replace it?"

My coworker sighs, putting her hands on her hips. She looks at me. "You wanna go up there, too?"

Heights... I haven't been good with them since I jumped off the fire escape.

But if I don't go up there with her, I'll have to wait down  _here_ , with my loud red uniform.

"Sure," I say, not really meaning it. I hide my fib with a dainty smile.

The man ducks further into the wing, towards the audience, reaching a long table scattered with an array of cables and tools, and takes a  box the size of his hand, along with a screwdriver. "Come on," he says, motioning to the latter bolted to a pillar at the stage's corner, half-concealed by one of the drawn red curtains.

He allows me and Ann to climb up first, and I find myself holding my breath. Sitting up on the ledge of my rooftop is one thing, but this is a whole other.

This. Is. Not. What. I. Signed. Up. For.

I haul myself over the last rung of the latter and onto a sturdy wooden plank. Crouched, I inch my way across until there's enough room for Ann to join me, who elects to stand rather than imitate the pathetic stance I use.

"Scared of heights?" she asks in a snicker. I growl at her, turning away from Ann and the stagehand when he makes his way up. They don't need my help with whatever light demands fixing. So I take that as an invitation to look around, knuckles white as I grip the wood harder beneath me.

The beams extend from one side of the stage to the other, gaps plenty large enough to fall through between them. Dividing the back of the stage from the front, in the middle of the framework is a stalky row of lights, leaving ten feet on each side to walk around, currently aimed directly down, and suspended from the ceiling high above.

The stage is large, and my view of the audience is cut off by the curtains at the front. The last one having left, a new dancer appears from the curtain's shadows. Before she begins her routine, I can already tell she's nervous, by the way she clenches her hands.

"State your name," a man says from the audience. I cannot see him.

"Heron Welle," the girl says. I'm amazed her voice doesn't shake.

With that, she finds her beginning position, and I attempt to forget how high above the floor I am while watching her.

Ann and the man work ahead of me, having moved to one of the center beams to change the light fixed next to it.

The ballerina prances and twirls about the stage, and I wonder how they judge each competitor, when they all dance to different choreography.  _And how many are there_?

Pretending to be a judge myself, I watch her meticulously. The way in which her moves come together and fall apart, if she minds where her arms are during her turns. She does. But just like the last girl, she's scared as hell.

Overall, her performance is good. She smiles, though she's visibly afraid. I can't say that I'd do any better than her, if I had to go up on stage. A year ago, for sure, when I was at my peak in dance, right before I broke my leg.

In time, she leaves with a curtsy, and a new one appears again. A grueling conveyor belt.

Whatever kind of light bulb the duo across the planks is changing, it must be difficult, with their fighting mumbles as Ann holds various parts of the light for the stagehand. I consider walking across the planks with  _considerable_ gaps between them, but decide against it.

Three more girls try their luck, doing better than the first two I observed. Their dances aren't more than ninety seconds long, but they pack skills and art into those seconds.

All of the girls are incredibly strong, toned muscles pronounced even beneath their tights. Talented, with the grace they use in  turns that go on longer than mine, toes unwavering when protected from the stage by only a piece of wood and cloth.

They were born for this, then raised for it when their parents spent exorbitant sums of money paying for ballet tuition. And at better, more pricey schools than mine. As much as I want to deny it, I envy them for what they have and what they've been given.

 _This one should be good,_ I think when I see her, a tall girl dressed head to ankle in black, her pointe shoes painted a pretty, steely blue. Her hair is dyed silver-white, cornrows at her scalp going into a bun. Flawless, golden skin, confident posture, and a smirk for the ages.

I can't call arrogance a good tool, but in dance... it sort of is. The Academy is looking for those with bravado, negligence for stage fright.

She saunters onto the set, heading for its center.

"State your name," the same voice asks of her.

"Ev-"

Tap shoes that aren't trying to be quiet sound from backstage, approaching. Their hits against the wood remind me of my own taps, fancy, expensive things I still keep under my bed. The steadiness the sounds have measure up to the girl's annoying smirk.

"Sorry I'm late," the owner of the tap shoes calls, emerging from the wings of the stage. "I got caught up in working on a new combination."

My heart stops.

At the inky black hair, the smile, the eyes. The voice. A voice I've heard before.

Outside of a dinky, dirty bar in East Harlem, the man cloaked in a black hoodie to hide his muscular build. A dancer's build.

Without thinking, I rise from my crouch, starting into a walk across the planks to get a better view. I keep my eyes down, not on where my feet are going, but on Cal, the son of the Manhattan Dance Academy.

Cal, short for Calore. His last name and the other name of this place.  _Calore Dance Academy_.

I told him so many things he shouldn't have ever heard a couple nights past. How I was a dancer, despising the rich living in the high rises of Hell's Kitchen. That's  _exactly_ who he is.


	10. Chapter 10

I halt my walking along the planks, stopping not far from where Cal stands, twenty-five, maybe thirty feet below. The red-hot anger I feel for Cal, for myself, negates the violent fear of heights I usually possess. I grip a dangling rope for stability nearby, one of the many arranged randomly throughout the rafters, part of the rigging system.

The young man wears nice tap shoes, a black T-shirt, and Adidas training pants, rolled at the ankle.

What was he doing, loitering outside of a disgusting East Harlem bar? He wasn't inside of it, preferring to stand at its edge, practically asking for trouble. No, he didn't score a brutal thug to pick a fight with, but rather a foolish, pickpocketing teen. And instead of sending me to the cops, he gave me two-hundred dollars and somebody to rant to.

If luck is real, because it's surely against me, then fate might be, as well. Whatever twisted, mutilated, comical fate this is.

Ann, up in the rafters with me, helping the stagehand with the light, revealed the cleaning staff was full, but one of the higher-ups suggested acquiring a new maid or two. I all but invited Cal into my apartment. He knows where I live, and after I bled my soul to him on our walk, he returned to East Harlem, sticking an advertising poster on Will's store window for a maid job at the Manhattan Dance Academy.

Alternatively called the Calore Dance Academy, dubbed after his billionaire family. I don't know why its name evaded my memory, but sure enough, below on the stage platform, further past the female and Cal, the name is branded on the stage, a near black on the dark wood. I was too entranced with the dancers to acknowledge it before, but it's striking,  _Calore_ written above  _Dance Academy_ , bolder in comparison to its counterparts.

Details about the family I learned years ago come flooding back, and I feel so, so stupid for not putting the pieces together. Cal's a nickname, and his father is the proprietor of one of the most successful dance companies in history to date. Dancers from around the world come to train under his family's leadership.

 _Everybody's heard of the Calores_. I don't know how I forgot the name. I've known it for a decade, especially fascinated as a little kid. It was my dream to dance at a place like this. I suppose it's just another part of dance I've done my best to forget, remembering it simply as the  _Manhattan Dance Company_ , owned by insanely-rich people who don't deserve my thoughts.

In efforts to stalk from a new perspective, I resume my crouch, craning my head for the best angle between the beams' spaces.

"It's fine, Cal," the unseen man in the audience who asked the dancers their names says. "You haven't missed much, and your brother scored in your place."

Cal nods, faintly frowning at the silver-haired woman also on stage. "Best of luck, Evangeline," he says, but doesn't quite mean it, the wish monotone and bland. Not trying to hide his disinterest.

 _Evangeline_. The girl who spoke with her mother on my assigned hallway while I hid in a guest room, assuming what I was listening in on wasn't meant for me. Her mom painted herself as a nightmare, but with Evangeline in the flesh, her infernal smirking...the girl takes after her.

"Thanks, partner," she returns, and my suspicions are confirmed. She and her mom spoke about Cal yesterday, and the dancer seemed awful confident in her ability to attain  _him_ as a partner. Until her mom broke the news—she and her father wouldn't be bribing anyone for the honor.

"Not yet," Cal mumbles, walking towards the front of the stage, my view of him cut off, and his shoes indicating a descent of steps.

Based off the scant interaction I've had with Cal, he isn't the cruel type. For my sanity, I'll assume he put that poster up on Will's storefront for good reason, not out of a wicked spite. He would've understood what it would mean to me to see the Academy, salt to a wound that I doubt will ever fully heal.

On the other hand, a job, any kind of job, would stop me from terrorizing innocents, give me a stable income to provide my family with. And it offers me the chance to see what could've been.

Though I don't know Cal, clearly not, I have no hesitation to believe those three ideas were what passed through his mind, causing him to advertise his own studio to me. They were what went through mine.

But a part, a part at large, despises him. Not for good reason, but for what he is, hundred-dollar bills at the ready in his wallet. Never known the feeling of a hungry stomach or the nervous high gotten from stealing for your family's monthly rent. Cal gave me this job, saved me from getting caught by men much worse than him, but I can't help but hate him for it.

"Evangeline Samos," the dancer below says, bringing me from the bar in East Harlem to the present. She doesn't delay for the man to ask for her name again. Dauntless. Without cue, Evangeline settles into her beginning position.

The hushed voices from the audience that started when Cal arrived lower, then cut off altogether.

I stiffen, sensing a hell of a performance coming. Ann and the stagehand even pause their work.

Her slender arms stretch outward, and Evangeline rises up in her pointe shoes.

She begins her routine, starting slow and displaying the muscles in her body as she kicks upward and holds a split position, repeating the movement three times. Her profile no longer faces me, so I imagine the vulpine smile on her features.

She leaps and jumps and arcs her body, each action—down to the flourishes of her hands—outlined with power. The other girls, good as some of them are, don't have her perfect grace, the kind of dancer meant to dedicate her life to this art form. Both natural and honed, the way she turns with ease and knows how far to bend her arms and legs.

"Mare," Ann hisses, probably wanting my help with the light. I ignore her, opting to watch Evangeline dance instead.

I walk along the beam, hands crossed behind my back. I walk while she glides across the stage, time straining, her leaps going by so slowly I can see the split formed in midair, her arms in a split of their own.

Impossible as it is, I hear music with her motions, dancer to dancer, because there's a track playing in her ears, guiding her steps, rising and lowering, jumping and plunging, forever landing on feet that are strong and callused. I've heard it with others, but not as beautiful; not as precise. 

"Mare," Ann calls again, daring more volume this time, though not much. Without the music, and the utter silence of the audience, Evangeline, the wooden blocks in her shoes to be specific, are the only sound for miles.

Crossing a few beams, forgetting where I am up in the rafters, I trail Evangeline, who waltzes around herself, showing off a diversity of footwork, not of the grand gestures she was going through before, but just as relevant. Many of the previous girls failed in that way, favoring tricks and casting off skill. Arrogant, but rightfully so.

I find myself shaking my head at the girl, dismayed at her prowess she continues to exploit, going past the designated ninety seconds.

The girl does a few things that I've never come across before, never been taught. Maybe I'll learn them at home, on the roof. I part my lips, imitating Evangeline's fabricated smile, pretending I'm her, running across the stage for the center. I'm somewhat more delicate with my footing.

A finale, and she's already gone past her time. Nobody except me cares about the fact, though, the audience growing boisterous as she prepares for her turn in an exaggerated fashion. Her right leg extends to the side, then shifts to the back. Her arms spread wide.

"Finish it!" an onlooker hollers from the audience.

Whether the comment is from a friend or foe, she takes it as an invitation, rolling her wrists.

"Mare," Ann growls in warning, the rest of the words implied but left unsaid.  _Get your ass over here, or this might just be your second and last day._ With a look towards her, at the end of the beam of lights, she doesn't pay attention to me as she says it, kneeling near the broken light with the stagehand.

But stubbornly mesmerized with Evangeline, executing turns identical to those I did in one of the studios, I walk towards her again, stepping across the row of lights bolted onto a continuous metal beam.

The lights shine brightly on Evangeline and her turns, the crack between them and beam enabling me to continue watching. I watch and watch, desperately searching for a fault in her composition. Tearing up, I realize there is none, no matter how hard I analyze her.

So after I realize there's no beam on the other side of the lights, my gaze is still fixed on the dancer and her turns, balanced and magnificent.

At least until I open my mouth to scream bloody murder, my other foot snagging on a light as the stage spreads out before my eyes, each wooden plank vivid and merciless. Evangeline jolts, falling out of her revolution, stumbling and barely keeping herself upright. She flings herself out of the way.

I flail my arms, wildly, manically searching for the next beam that  _has to_ come after the large space that  _shouldn't be_ here, a blindspot with the raised lighting hiding it. If I could just grab on tight...cling to it until I lose my momentum, then pull myself upward... Even as I fall, time slowing, my face not past the rafters, not into the view of the audience, I question how I didn't notice the gap I'm falling through. Too distracted, having lost my inhibitions to a dance routine. My arms reaching for that imaginary plank, I shriek louder.

Instead of a beam, I'm awarded a rope. My fingers graze it first, and out of some primal instinct, they reach out, wrap around the rope so hard it hurts.  _My hands are going to rip open against this rope._

 _Expecting_  to stop, jerk to a rest, I am unpleasantly surprised when I continue to fall, past the beams, the floor an unforgiving sight, and I understand I'm not going to stop. My gut plummets with more hesitation than the rest of me, riding up in my throat, the air not filtering through my lungs properly.

Is the rope broken? Is it too long and unraveling from somewhere?

I close my eyes, the rope my anchor to a fleeting life.

The consolation is Cal's guilt for my death, cracking my spine on his family's stage. It'll make for a good show, better than Evangeline's performance. The outrage, the horror, will be all over the news, and it will wreak havoc on the Academy's reputation. They'll try to hide it, but too many people are present, rich people who adore gossip and tabloids.

Or maybe nobody will give a crap, playing it off as the stupidity of a maid.

The audience makes noises I can only define as upset, hearing the shout and seeing a girl emerge from the stage rafters. A few go so far as to scream like me, as loud and terrified as me.

For me, I block my surroundings out, tucking my legs into my body as much as I can in the limited time—

The rope does indeed jerk to a rest, a second before it snaps in half, taking the bottom half—me with it—to the ground, however many feet away—

I land on my ass, back and head spared from the brunt of it, wood a mallet to my tailbone. I expect stars, my eyes still pinched shut, but I see orange and yellow in fuzzy specks behind my eyelids. Merely the lights, shining right on me and putting me on a strange display.

No concussion, no death, which I should be glad for. I can keep on living my sad, impoverished life.

To think all of that—what just happened—occurred in a matter of seconds. The crowd is stunned into a pure silence, and for the second that none of them, not a single critic, say a word is the worst moment of my existence. My heart beats heavy, not comprehending it's still pumping my blood. Which I didn't spill on the stage. Good.

Forcing myself to crack an eye open, Ann is thirty feet above, peeking out from the space I fell through. Her gaping mouth is enough to make me want to vomit.

"Hey," Evangeline snaps, waving her hand in my line of sight. My gaze moves from Ann to her, towering and angry. The sharp planes of her face are made into something wicked with a glower. Her eyes appear to be black. "Were you planning on auditioning? Or was that an  _accident_?"

"She's fine," Evangeline says in a horrible tone when a stagehand attempts to come forward. She holds her other hand out to the few stagehands in the wings. Preventing them from coming to me, helping me. She's absolutely terrifying.

Oh, she's a bitch alright. Not sure how to react, I bark out a dark laugh. To my delight, I don't cough up blood in the process. "I tripped," I simply say. A dozen audience members have the gall to laugh at the explanation.

"I noticed," she purrs.

How I'd love to dissolve into the floor. I sit up, survey the auditorium to my left. It's not packed, but three-hundred fill in the red-velvet seats, out of the six-hundred, seven-hundred spots. Enough for at least one of them to remember my face in a crowd.

It's a single-level theatre, but it travels far, cut up into three sections, divided by grey carpeting. The ceiling is taller than needed. The doors I saw on the way in are at the back, dancers filtering in to investigate who the screaming was from. And the lights...they carry on in their scheming, disarming me of every pretense I've built up.

I'm going to quit. Right after I run off this stage.

"You can leave, now," Evangeline says, concluding I won't be speaking to her again.

"So can you," a voice from the front of the audience retorts. "We all know you can do the turns, so your audition is complete."

I whirl my neck towards the source. Cal stands up, bracing his palms on the chairback in front of him. He sits next to a black, curly-haired boy who's a year or two his minor and man who must be his father, the one and only owner of the Manhattan Dance Academy, a woman with ashy blonde hair to his left. The four of them reside in the center section, five rows up and straight down the middle. Nobody sits ahead of them or behind them for a few rows, giving Cal and his family distance for judging.

Needing to get out of here, in dire need, I stand up. I wobble, from the fall or from the tension in my chest for whatever else Cal is about to say. I make to walk off to the wing of the set.

And I make it all of three paces before he says, "Wait."

Knowing full-well I don't have to listen to him, that he doesn't control me, I plant my shoes, curling my toes in. I plan on quitting. They can't fire me, but I follow his order anyway.

I face him, his bronze irises with a hint of sadness. "Are you alright?"

Nobody in this theatre, in all of Manhattan, for that matter, knows we've met before. It makes his asking painful, and I do my best to treat him as I would any other of his kind: "Fine," I state plainly.

In the background, Evangeline stalks offstage, arms crossed.

Cal's family glances at him oddly, wondering how long it'll take for him to kick me out, hand me over to the stagehands waiting to check for injuries.

"Well?" he asks.

"What?"

"Evangeline asked if you were planning on auditioning. Are you?"

One thing becomes achingly clear: he was the shadow in my vision when I finished my turns in the studio. On our walk to my apartment, I told him about my dance, my beloved dance; though he would never believe a poor girl like me is worthy of auditioning for the Calore Dance Academy, unless I proved myself to him. So I did. Unwittingly. The turns I did were not elementary, and Cal knows very well they weren't.

Prior to letting my mouth fly, cuss and make my final stand, I glare at him. He offers a crooked smile and a tilt of the head, implying a dare. Daring me to perform for these rich bastards, make every last one of them regret snickering at the maid.

Even if I did it, successfully auditioned despite not truly dancing in almost a year and a half, I don't have the money to pay for tuition. Not a fraction of it. Besides, I can't coexist with these people, and they would never tolerate me.

Cal nods over and over, almost begging me to accept his offer.

I press down on my lips, making my intentions clear.

He snaps his fingers, like some kind of entitled prince, and speaks again. "Somebody find her a leotard, tights, and a pair of broken-in pointe shoes." He holds eye-contact with me the whole time, as though he's worried about me running away. I consider it. Cal's not giving me a choice in this.

He must think I'm good, if he's pushing the issue this hard. Afraid of losing a talented dancer to an ordinary life.

"We have a break coming up in an hour." Cal's father is about ready to burst a vessel, by the way he holds his armrests and leers at his son. The boy who must be Cal's brother pales, surveying me. "So you have an hour, Miss—I don't believe I caught your name."

Cal deserves a slap, and if I have the chance...

"You can call me Miss Barrow."

* * *

_A shout out to my new editor, BellonaetLibitina. You're a great help to me!_

 


	11. Chapter 11

I don't realize I'm shaking until somebody's pressing a folded leotard and tights into my hands, asking what size my feet are.

Barely in the wing, staring straight ahead, but not really looking at anything.  _What the hell just happened?_

I was just granted a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, that's what the hell just happened. Given to me by perhaps the best young dancer at the Academy, even if it made him look unhinged in front of his kin and peers. After I gave Cal my last name, I mutely walked from the stage, a silent acceptance of his offer. I could still run. I should still run.

"Miss Barrow?" the man questions, attempting to make my hands react to his, urging the clothing into my grasp. "Your foot size?"

His voice is vaguely recognizable the second time he says it, and my fingers clamp down on the clothing.  _The door guard?_ I twist my face to his, at my side with raised brows.

"I'm an eight, street shoe," I tell him, studying the guard I first showed the advertisement poster to. Same black irises, like Evangeline's. Same lack of hair as there was when I greeted him outside the building's front doors. He isn't a stagehand, but security, with a form-fitting shirt, cargo pants, and boots, with a belt around his waist. The entire ensemble is black. The belt carries a walkie-talkie and a gun, if I'm not mistaken.

What is this place? And why did I tell him my size?

Thinking he's going to abandon me for wherever the shoes are kept, I rock side to side, but he cranks his neck for the rafters. "You fell three stories and got up without any help."

"Yes," I acknowledge, thumbing the new fabric. The leotard is cold and silky, a sangria purple. The black tights are soft and flexible. I couldn't have gotten offstage quicker, mortified myself less. The best course of action was to pretend it was nothing, play it off as an ordinary, silly event. If only Cal hadn't become involved.

"I'll find your shoes," he says, and the guard wants to say more, opening his mouth, but instead hurries from backstage, leaving me alone. To watch the next girl enter from the other stage wing, like nothing ever happened.

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

The man—Lucas Samos, I learn with contempt on the way up, cousin of Evangeline Samos—drops me off in a studio identical to the room Cal caught me dancing in, and that's that.

Distantly, there's a clock ticking away in my conscience, counting down the minutes until I'd go on stage to do my so-called audition. Even with the pointe shoes in hand, leotard and tights draped on a nearby barre, it's ridiculous to believe I'd ever go out there, dance for the people who spit on my kind.

Though I know the choreography I'd use. I remember it perfectly, and dream about it more often than I care to admit. It was a solo I would've performed at my old studio's recital, as the opening act. In the months leading up to my injury, I practiced the piece relentlessly, stayed at the studio oftentimes until midnight. It was beautiful, and I barely thought anything of it being the first act. I never got to perform it.

All of the sudden, I bark out a harsh laugh, happy for the privacy. I'd hurtle the pointe shoes to the floor if I didn't find them too pretty to be damaged.

This place...its fancy windows and marble...this is stupid. I'm stupid, for entertaining the thought of dancing here for a damn second. I can't afford it, so I'm not sure why I'm in this room contemplating it.

I must've hit my head. The way I kept myself poised on stage, rose without crying, and managed those few words to Cal, knowing hundreds judged me, the odd maid with the ugly red uniform, indicates I suffered a brain injury. The whole thing is a blur, and it wasn't long ago.  _It doesn't make sense_.

Scrubbing a hand over my face, I walk over to the barre, planning to deposit the shoes under it and leave. This can't be my life; I owe it to my family to find a job that I won't quit, that I have a future in. This would be selfish and worse than becoming a life-long maid.

Again, I don't have the money. So why am I entertaining this idea? I rest my forehead on the barre.

Only to hear a pair of taps hitting the marble floor outside of the room. Crap.

There's one person in this whole complex who'd be wearing tap shoes, walking around so naturally in them. I haven't been around most of the Manhattan Dance Academy dancers, but I'm willing to bet it's Cal's individual trademark. Cal, who should be a floor down, judging pointe dancers with the rest of the Calores.

And there's no way he's walking this hallway for a purpose other than to see me.

I struggle to compose myself in the limited amount of time he's allowed me, warranted by the harsh click of metal on marble. Straightening my back, I brush the hair out of my way and face the door where he'll inevitably appear.

My hand goes to rest on the leotard, a comfort after so many months. Whatever's Cal's planning to say...it won't work. I'll say my piece to him, thank him for the opportunity, and do my best not to hurl insults. Then, I can walk straight out the front, wash my hands of the Calore Dance Academy. As much as my family needs money, a day and a half of pay isn't worth it. Ann probably didn't finish filling out the papers documenting my job. Good thing, too. I would've had to tell her I'm not an adult yet; I didn't finish high school. It might not be illegal, but I don't want her knowing it.

Cautiously, the door glides ajar, pushed by a concealed force. Cal slips through the crack, hands behind his back as he toes it shut.

_Do you wear those everywhere for the purpose of announcing your arrival?_

_What have you done?_

"You're angry with me?" he asks through white teeth, filling the silence.

I stare at him across the room, and yes, I see how he might find my face infuriated. I haven't begun to change into the provided ballet uniform, and my fists are clenched, prepared to throw a punch. I wonder if he knows how to fight.

"You lied to me," I say, not speaking about today.

"No," he argues lightly, approaching me. I hold my ground. "I would've told you who I was had you asked me."

"I didn't know to ask you."

This man...this boy, whatever he considers himself, holds a great amount of power at the Academy. With a snap of his fingers he summoned Lucas to the wings of the stage, awaiting me with a leotard and tights. He's not arrogant or cruel the way Evangeline is, but it pokes at me nonetheless. I tried to steal from Cal, the son of a very, very rich man.

Cal's shrug is his response. He glances at the shoes on the floor, then the leotard and tights, protectively covered by my hand. "Why haven't you changed?"

Does he truly not understand? I can't afford it, as I've repeated again and again in my head, but it would be unimaginably selfish, too. "If I've learned something in the last week, it's that I need a job. And you got me a job, so thank you. But I can't work here anymore, and I certainly can't dance—"

"Oh, you can dance, alright," he says, interrupting me. "I saw you doing those turns during your cleaning, and from personal experience, they aren't easy. Some of our dancers are struggling with them. So why not audition? You don't have anything to lose."

"It's not—" I stop, running out of the right words. "You're right," I say. "Nothing to lose, but nothing to gain either. You can't possibly think I can afford to dance for this company, with the tuition fees and clothes I'd have to buy. I need a job, Cal. A job to support my family, not the opposite. I'm leaving."

I go forward, but with a step, Cal blocks my path, his lips parted and eyes unfocused, something about what I said confusing him. "You think you have to pay to dance at this level?" he asks quietly. "I don't know what you think these auditions are for, but this is  _it_. Professional ballet, professional tap, professional everything. It's hard work, and you're young to be making a career out of this, but if you make it...you get paid. Not the opposite."

Of course I knew that. "I'm not good enough to become a professional dancer," I say. It comes out blunt, and I blink at him. I assumed money would be an issue, as it always has been in my training. I didn't consider the possibility of making a profit off my craft with this audition. Though I'd be in the same category as Evangeline, who's  _certainly_  good enough to become a pro. I thought it would be some kind of learners' program, the type where a monthly payment is necessary.

The offer came, and I just assumed, for no reason at all.

Cal lets out a breathy laugh. "You say you haven't danced in a year and a half. Yet I suspect you practice, if you can do those turns. You watch the other girls on stage, and you note their flaws, too, don't you? You're better than most of them."

My silence is adequate answer for Cal. Yes, I did pick apart the auditioning dancers' flaws, and yes, I'm as strong, flexible, and graceful as ever, thanks to the training I do in my room. And for the moves I can't do in there, such as those turns Cal's so stuck on, I continue to  _pretend_ to do them, recalling what parts of my body need to be muscled and engaged to do so.

"You can make up as many excuses as you wish," Cal says. "But I call it a waste if you don't try."

"My mom, my dad, my siblings..." I start, and Cal's brows knit, already planning how he'll counter. My resolve's splintering. "They need me, and I can't...live this fantasy life out of nowhere. This might be my dream, but it doesn't matter. They deserve more from me, whereas they'd be panicking about me being out until eleven, twelve o'clock at night with this. I can't provide for them with a job where I might be at the top one day, and at bottom with an injury the next."

Cal backs away, his shoes relatively quiet. "They'll ask questions if I don't return soon. But I expect to see you," he pauses, checking his watch, not modern or electronic, but a basic watch, "in forty minutes. You made it to this room, which leads me to believe that a repressed, impassioned part of you wants this. It'd be a waste if you didn't try," Cal repeats, shoes clicking as he leaves the room.

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

Our discussion is brief, but it hits me like a rock to the gut.

Nothing to lose and everything to gain, so it appears.

I slip on my tights and leotard without giving my doubts a second thought, tie the laces of my pointe shoes—the faintest rose color, nearly alabaster—around my ankles.

 _He's right, clearly_ , I tell my reflection in the mirror, twiddling my hair into a bun at the base of my scalp. The lack of money has proven to be a fictional trouble, and my family...I'll figure out how to explain it to them. And if it's a betrayal, it'll work itself out. Because if I don't do this...

I've never feared the spotlight. The size of the stage isn't an issue, and I have faith in myself to handle the audience, however judgmental, which has presumably doubled since the crowd in the lobby heard about the falling maid and Cal's madness. Moreover, it could hardly go  _wrong_ , after my previous appearance on stage.

Settling myself into a willed, bone-deep calm, I shove my trepidations away,  _promising_ myself that if it somehow goes right, I'll sort it all out with myself later.

It won't, but I lean into a stretch for my hamstrings, beginning the process I've gone through each day since my leg was cleared for activity. The stretching alone takes ten minutes, between toe touches, lunges, and splits; in the latter, I press my stomach and face to my leg, pointing my feet and ignoring the slight ache at my tailbone. Aside from that, the motions are a welcome friend, and I jump up to swing out my arms.

Next, I go across the room  _en pointe_ , warming up my ankles with the raising and lowering. Then the basic footwork in my old dance, verifying I'm comfortable with it.

I follow myself in the long mirror with diligence, watching for the tiny flaws Cal and his family will notice and add up. I repeat the steps if my shoulders are a fraction too high, relaxing them back.  _Good_.

The song I would've danced to was a mournful tune, chords of sadness weaved throughout. I was to play the part of a tearful maiden, crying over a lost lover, or something to that effect. The recitals were always a complicated, beautiful mess, set on having a plot to the show, yet with tap dances and ballet mixed together in back-to-back performances. I loved it.

No time to reminisce. A track of music sets about in my head, as it surely did in Evangeline's, and I begin to walk through—or rather dance—the piece my instructors choreographed for me, based upon my greatest strengths. Flexibility and turns, the exquisite, glorious things in dance. But they weren't fools who only loved grand gestures; the instructors added footwork, so it wasn't all leaps and spinning.

 _This is a sad song_ , I remind the person dancing the the mirror.  _So stop smiling_.

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

"Ready?" a voice calls from across the room, startling me. My eyelids are closed and I'm in the middle of turning when the guard says it.

Fumbling, I put a flat foot to the ground to stop myself. Lucas stands at the door, wide-open. Too caught up in rehearsing my dance, I didn't see or hear him come in.

I lift my chin, rolling out my shoulders. "Okay."

"Nervous?" he asks, holding the door for me.

"Not really," I respond with, heading for the nearby stairs. I fell out of my turns once, during the half hour I had to practice. Then again, I did fine the next five times I repeated them, but... _not perfect enough_. If I'm going out on stage, ideally, I'd like to make every member of the audience piss themselves in the process. I'd like to make them feel naive for disputing my skill. Which I allegedly have, according to Cal.

The other moves I practiced were rusty put together in the dance at first, but nothing thirty minutes couldn't fix. Ready as I'll ever be.

"Not a bit?"

I glare at Lucas, and the conniving mischief in him melts into something more genuine. He walks beside me, shepherds me downstairs, though the path back isn't difficult to navigate. I don't respond right away.

Everything else went well, as I practiced. Dancing on the roof is one thing, but to return to a studio is a dream come true. My motions were effortless, and I closed my eyes after awhile. Doing my routine on stage, in front of six hundred...if I pull it off...

"Crowds don't scare me," I say. "They never have, and they never will. A fall from the rafters can't change it."

My escort frowns but nods, taking me to the left wing. There's a girl out there who ended her audition a moment ago, bowing to the audience, to the Calores. I scoff.

"Right on time," Lucas recognizes. "Your turn."


	12. Chapter 12

I step out onto the stage, wearing a fraudulent smile.

With the blinding lights above, the faces are obscured shadows, but there's no debating whether six-hundred individuals are gawking at me or not. Seated in comfortable red-velvet seats, they watch my every breath, hissing thoughts at one another.

Deciding to pretend none of them are there, Cal included, I bring up my chin to the doors at the top of the theatre, past the steep incline of the seats, to the afternoon sun slinking through the entrances.

Soon after I focus my attention on the natural light, though, the doors glide shut, almost of their own accord. To spite me. The rest of the theatre Stygian with red exit signs, the stage is what lights up the space, what all eyes are drawn towards.

Were the doors shut for the other dancers? I don't recall.

Still, I watch the panel of wall as the audience watches me. They're aware I'm special, and I'd bet most of them are bewildered that I made it this far, wearing my pretty little ballerina clothing. I might be a maid, but the smart ones are analyzing my figure—the lean muscles on my body, my thin arms and bony chest—and predict there's more going on.

The wall serves me kindly, grounding me to the earth. There are places to look when you can't bare to  _look_  at your judges, in the public eye. Places to make your judges believe you are returning their gazes, though in truth you aren't. For that reasoning, I've always found the back wall a comfort, though I rarely use it.

"State your name," Cal's father says. I'm glad Cal didn't decide to step in yet again and take his father's line. With the man's solemn voice, the whispering grinds to a halt.

Though I've seen it before, fell on it, in fact, the platform is larger now. It might be the difference in lighting—because yes, I'm sure the doors were open before. The sturdy floor boards act like an island, a bright speck of light in perhaps an infinite crowd of people. With the doors closed, I can hardly make out much of anything besides for those dull exit signs. For all I know, the rows of seats might go on for  _miles_.

I snicker at my imagination.

"Mare Barrow," I say into the black. The lights above me are hot, and they must illuminate about every pore, every imperfection on my body. I keep staring at the one point where the doors were.

The father of Cal emits a sound of contemplation, setting my nerves on edge. Though my heart beats normally; with the absence of the auditorium lights, it can be as though I'm dancing for nobody but myself, in front of a nonexistent group of people, if I don't pay them attention. It's a great dance, with great choreography—

"My son says you can dance, Mare Barrow," he repeats my name, and I don't like the sound of it on his tongue. The words 'billionaire' and 'corrupt' go hand in hand. "You did fall from the rafters to audition. So why don't you prove to me you are a  _decent_ ballet dancer? Then we'll talk."

I'm honestly shocked nobody laughs at the man. Out of respect or fear, I suppose. Those words, too, go hand in hand.

"Very well," I say under my breath, but the theatre might carry sound well enough for him to hear me.

Venturing further, past the center line, I turn away and face the corner . It's unsettling to not be able to see them, though there's little they'd be able to accomplish from their seats.

In an instant, my face melts from a small smile to an open-mouthed frown, a gasp. I make my eyes wreak of sorrow, mourning, just as the melody suggests. A sad, lonely girl. A loss of a lover or father...it's hardly relevant. Loss is loss, and it hurts all the same.

The loss of a father who could run and walk down the streets of Manhattan with me; a brother who's gone, dust in the wind; or a passion, cemented bone-deep with no hope of  _ever_ getting rid of it.

A moment longer, and the audience, the damned members of it, will begin to grow restless and antsy. So I find my positioning, with a graceful, defeated slouch, if it's possible, and begin breathing heavily. As if I'm crying. The leading instructor of my studio always emphasized acting. To dance is half of it, to act, to  _bleed_ , is the other, equally vital part. The girls before me, they used little to no facial expression. Evangeline was good enough, but I would describe her stage face as blithe and haughty, lacking raw emotion.

I take a deep breath.

The track of slow music begins in my head, steady and strong.

So do I.

On the lonely stage, I begin my old dance.

I force myself to forget everyone. It's easier when I have no fear of messing up or failing altogether. The first motions, despite inadequate review, come to me naturally, without having to think ahead, and I get lost in them. I get lost in the freedom I find in them.

The maiden I play shows her face after she stretches her arms, slouches farther over, and sheds her tears. She rushes forward, leaping high.

 _Nothing but an empty, abandoned theatre_.

The silent music doesn't falter, and neither do I, caught up in a beautiful rhythm as the beat grows faster and louder.

Without having to check, my feet are pointed perfectly and my posture is tall. I use the space to the fullest, larger than any stage I've performed on before. Which means, I must be as big as it, consume it and own it. My kicks rise above my head and my leaps are controlled. I run with purpose, conviction, when the maiden decides to run.

The turns...oh, the turns.

The maiden turns with strong ankles and shows her sorrow to the world with an uncaring pride.

Most dancers count by eights or sixes to keep track of their timing. I don't. I've always relied solely on the music to guide my pace, though my teachers told me when I was little that I must count, as good dancers do. But never being able to conform, not even in dance, I kept it to myself, a stubborn promise to rely on music.

So because I don't count, the pretend music must play steadily.

I quickly drift further and further from the audience, from reality. There's something addictive in the dance and the music, something I want to cling to forever. Like on the roof, not only getting lost in the dance...but losing myself.

Losing those jaded parts, the heartbreak that comes with the loss of a walking father, a brother, and a passion. Because here, in these pointe shoes, I'm not the same person as I am at home.  _Mare Barrow, the high school dropout, the ex-dancer, the poor girl_. Though I told my name, it means nothing. I am nothing but a dancer.

The tear slipping down my cheek is not the maiden's.

I trust myself enough to squeeze my eyes shut, stopping the tears, and feel the floor beneath my feet, though I haven't been dancing on it for long. I trust my pounded-in habits:  _Head tilted up, a long neck, a back not arched._ And more. The other girls were so nervous, so terrified. I do my best to be everything they're not.

Opening my eyes to turn, I'm facing the audience again, having completed the shortest sequence of the dance. The music ceases, and I stare out, shifting from the far left to the far right. I bring my arms up, then down to the sides, to present myself and the show I would've begun.

I survey the shadows longer than I should, drawing me to the present. Though they don't scare me, the adrenaline in my veins overpowering logic. I see each figure, waiting for whatever I have in store next.

Motionless and quiet. Good. It means I'm not a joke. Maybe.

And suddenly, I find myself. Pulled from a lulling abyss.

Downstage, I complete three  _pirouettes,_ intent on screaming my heartache. To explain to them, what I am and  _what_ I've been through, and why they'll never question a poor girl's skill again.

I watch them and they watch me as I retreat, my heart pounding at the interaction. I don't let them see it, though. They see power and strength and grief.

I carry on.

Like Evangeline, ferocious in everything she did, I dance through a series of what appears to be basic, simple moves, but anybody who's danced knows my footwork took years to perfect. I exaggerate the steps for notability, feet smacking the stage. This isn't a delicate dance.

The music nears its peak, the strings of a violin booming with my  _arabesques_. I push myself in each motion, convincing my legs to go high, higher than I practiced. Gorgeous, long arms. Pointed feet.

I thought it was for nothing, after I met the ground in my jump off the fire escape. I hit the street, and there was this unbearable pain in my leg, so unbearable it had to be a break. And then those years I spent training in the studio with my beloved mentors felt insignificant, though I had poured my heart and soul into learning.

I didn't care about anything else. Not when I had ruined everything.

The dance would be longer, if I was performing it for the recital. But I have a feeling I've already gone over my time, as mangled as my sense of it is.

I greet the stage's center, preparing to end it with the same turns Cal caught me doing. In a mockery of Evangeline's performance, I sweep my arms around, though the crowd does not yell at me like they did for her. Is it a bad thing?

I bring my right foot behind me, and without another frivolous arm gesture, begin my  _fouettes_. 

 _Fouettes_. Considered one of the most difficult movements in ballet, something the other teenagers at my studio never dared to try. After seeing them online...I was obsessed.

Somehow I can still do them. I turn and turn, whipping around, my leg a stock-still force as the other comes in and out. Sixteen...sixteen of them, and then I'm done.

Odd, but I don't want it to be over. Even if I'm nowhere up to par with the standards of the Calore Dance Academy and have thoroughly embarrassed myself. In that case, I'll have to start dancing up on my roof again—

Sixteen turns, and then I fall.

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

My side hits the stage gently, and legs bent, they curl towards my stomach. Hands pressing on the ground, my face ends up an inch from the wood, looking straight down at it.

An intentional fall, not like in the rafters.

At the end of my dance, I'm supposed to fall, in a fluid and poised sort of way. And I do, collapsing on myself mid-turn. My vision limited , I focus on what I feel: the solid wood beneath my body and leotard, warmed by the glaring lights, the palpable shock in the audience, and the joyous tingle in my feet. The tingle will later become an ache.

For longer than I should, I just lie there, breathing heavily and refusing to give my surroundings a gander. The fall was intentional, and I practiced it to look the part—

Applause.

It starts with one clap, a single smacking together of hands. From somewhere to the right, not from Cal. And after one clap, everything changes. It isn't whoops or cries or laughter, the tentative clapping, but a smile blooms at my lips, however hard I try to keep it at bay.

I push myself up, rising to my full height. The time it takes between lying down, a pathetic, heartbroken girl, and standing up is unbearable.

Still the same shadows, every last one of them a mystery to be solved.

I nod, so different from the deep bows and curtsies my competitors gave their assessors, before I walk off.

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

As much as I want to, I don't keep walking past the wings. Instead, I stop right next to Lucas, sit down, and begin unlacing my pointe ribbons.

"Well. Shit," he says.

I huff a laugh. It's all I can manage.

Lucas props himself against one of the cement pillars at the stage's edge. He crosses his arms. "So how did such a talented ballerina end up working not as a dancer, but as a maid here?"

Another laugh. "An incredibly long story," I explain, not intending to elaborate if he prods. Nobody needs to know about Cal's hand in this; it would lead to questions and trouble. "What should I do now?" I ask, hoping to curve him off the topic.

"I have no idea," he says with a shrug. "Typically, a dancer auditions, and by the month's end, they receive a letter of acceptance or rejection. But they don't even have your address, do they? Ann's iconic when it comes to her late paperwork."

I shake my head. "No, they don't."

"How are you so calm about this?"

"I-"

Lucas's phone begins ringing, and it isn't until then do I realize I'm shaking; shaking so hard I can barely manage a grip on the ribbons. Looking over my shoulder, there isn't another dancer waiting to come on from either side. I still can hear faint clapping, gradually dulling into those whispers.

That just happened.

I danced, when I haven't  _danced_  in  _months_ , with about a half an hour to prepare beforehand. The crowd applauded for me, and I offered but a nod of my chin in return.  _They applauded for me_. I hold back tears—and possibly vomit—sure to come later, subdued for now by Lucas and whoever he's on the phone with.

I try to review my dance, though it's no more than a blurred dream. During it, I let go of any worries, any awareness, passing on my performance, my fate, to my subconsciousness. The one part I can recall with clarity is when I came to the front, and peered out, finding nothing but shadows.  _Ah, the shadows._

Maybe it was nothing spectacular, and the audience only clapped because they were impressed that the maid stood on pointe without breaking her ankles.

But...those  _fouettes_...unless I've totally lost it, they were good, better than any practiced in my measly thirty minutes of rehearsal. And the way I fell...it had to have looked planned. It was planned.

Lucas says "yes," into his cellphone, over and over, taking in seemingly complex instructions. I don't do anything, sitting helplessly on the floor with fingers too numb for removing my shoes.

The overhead lights dim as Lucas says a "Yes, sir," to the receiver on the other end, and I can vaguely tell the theatre doors are open. Auditions aren't done. With the number of people out in the lobby, auditions must be going late into the night. Unless they're resuming the break I interrupted—

It's something else, by the  _waiting_ look Lucas has, slipping his phone into his pocket. I give up in my efforts to take off my shoes, the shaking worsening.

"What?"

The security guard offers me two blinks. "The owner of the Academy would like to meet you. And offer you a different job."

* * *

_Another thanks to my 2nd editor, FoolishDonut0_

_I've learned a thing or two from you, and I thought I was the writer!_


	13. Chapter 13

"Is he right out there?" I ask Lucas, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with him on the long, curving, and dark hallway connecting backstage to the lobby.

"No," he says. "But to warn you, there's a crowd. Mister Calore's office is up the staircase."

The entire audience? The stage lights dulled, and the auditorium doors opened, indicating a break. But for all of them to gather? Just for a closer look?

The walls close in around me, and I steal a quelling breath. There's a slit of light further down, and the lights from the stage glow faintly at the end where Lucas and I came from. It's fine. Everything's going to be fine.

"They're scared of you too, you know," Lucas says, nudging me with his shoulder. "None of them have ever gotten personally invited to Tiberias Calore's office to discuss matters of dancing."

For everything said, I only pay attention to the name. "Tiberias?" I say in the most respectful manner I can.

Lucas doesn't bother with repressing his laugh. "I have no idea why a father would name his child that. Cal's real name is Tiberias, by the way, like his dad. I dare you to call him that some time." Lucas's chuckling dies in his throat. "Who told him you could dance? He didn't take no for an answer when he suggested you audition."

Rather than conjure up a lie, I go for the truth. Or a partial truth, at least. Lies always come back to bite me in the butt. "I was cleaning one of the studios this morning, and he saw me messing around with my turns. I guess Cal thought it'd be a shame if I didn't audition, so when I ended up falling onstage...he pushed it." I don't tell Lucas about meeting him outside of a bar, or Cal's convincing words in the studio.

"Cal knows talent when he sees it. He's the best dancer under twenty years old at the Academy. Of course, his old man wouldn't let it be otherwise. My family's been working and practicing under the Calores for years, and I've always seen Cal at the top of his age group. Yet he's humble, which is more refreshing than you'd believe."

"I believe it," I say, stopping with Lucas when we reach the door. "The people who dance here aren't very nice, are they?" Evangeline can't be the outlier; she has to be one of the worst. "Your whole family has dealings with the Calores?"

"More or less. My parents and Evangeline's have business dealings with them dating far back, and Evangeline has basically been bred to dance for this company her whole life."

"Business dealings?"

I'm betting Lucas eyes me in the dark, though I can't see it for myself. "You ask a lot of things. Why don't we go out for lunch sometime? Then I'll answer all of your burning questions."

"Great," I huff out, crossing my arms. To brace myself for what comes next. "Let's walk fast, okay?"

"Good idea," he returns and cranks open the door.

I start into a walk, my pointe shoes too loud on the floor, Lucas keeping behind me.

 _They_ notice me immediately, the ones near the exit. The lobby itself is congested, probably worse than earlier, due to the break. Like a ripple in water, more and more people turn away from their friends to look at me, until everybody's attention is on  _me_.

Nevermind being inconspicuous, then. Almost wearily, I put on a small, modest smile, not wanting them to think of me anything like Evangeline. Though if it's as cutthroat as Lucas makes it out to be...no, I won't sink to their level. Besides, who knows what this position entails? I might end up as an understudy or a back-line dancer. Certainly not a prima ballerina.

No reason. I have no reason to be arrogant.

I beeline for the stairs, but I can't avoid the people in my way. I apologize  _each time_ I brush into somebody else, not finding myself nearly as agile as I was onstage. And whenever I try with eye contact, try my best at a warmer smile, my recipients find  _elsewhere_ to avert their eyes. So much for the clapping.

"Your dance was beautiful," a girl says, and I jerk my head in her direction, taken aback at the comment. Her skin is dark and so is her hair, with grey eyes the color of a brewing storm.

"Thanks," I respond, happy she decided to break the tension.

Nothing more to say, I continue past her through the crowd, parting for me as I come. Two or three more dancers also compliment me, and I repeat my thanks, offering them the best wishes for their auditions, though they could've already gone.

I hit the stairs, tapping the railing while I ascend. Lucas comes up to my side. "It could've gone worse," he whispers into my ear.

"Whatever," I simper. "It went by quicker than I thought it would. Isn't there a back entrance?"

Lucas tilts his head. "What would be the fun in that? Trust me, you'll be thankful for it later. Let the masses meet Mare Barrow up close and personal."

Sighing, I come to the top of the stairs, agonizingly aware of who's watching my back. Lucas and I...with our personalities, we're to either clash and become the worst of enemies, or else bond and become the best of friends. Both sound like great amounts of  _fun_.

"This way," he says, proceeding to the right. The hallway is identical to the ones upstairs, with the sunset marble and minimal decor. On the side closest to the stairs, there are classrooms, and on the left...offices? That would be natural, since Lucas is taking me to the office of 'Mister Calore.'

Sick of my inner monologues, I concentrate on myself, wanting to seem somewhat put-together. Why am I still wearing my leotard and tights? I wish I had thought to ask Lucas for my black pants or a ballet skirt. Though I don't feel vulnerable in the skin-tight clothing, not after wearing this stuff for years. If anything, I suppose I should feel confident, my muscles easily seen through the tights.

"Mare?"

"Yes?"

"Do yourself, the world, a favor: Don't talk back to him."

I open my mouth, but find myself facing a completely serious Lucas. Dull eyes, a tight smile, demanding my agreement.

I know nothing of Tiberias Calore. Only his voice and its hint of cruelty.

"Fine."

"Excellent." Coming to the final door on the left, he knocks. It's a wide set of double doors, painted white and adorning a peephole. The other doors along the hall aren't as large or have a spying device on them. Fair enough.

A disembodied voice calls, "Come in," using a gruff tone. "You too, Lucas."

 _There's nobody else he's expecting_ , I tell myself, but it unnerves me anyway.

Lucas twists down on the gilded handle, and opens the door. I slip through after him, and he closes it behind us.

The room is like a...bachelor pad. Half of it, anyway, with its TV, gaggle of chairs and sofas, and various coffee tables of different sizes. There's a pool table set further away from the setup, a cabinet that must hold all manner of alcohol next to it. With the brick walls and the...manly colors, bachelor pad is the best description I can give it.

Where there'd usually be a long window, there are curtains. Light-cancelling, thick black curtains. Intricate chandeliers cast the room in a warm color.

Across the room, there's a colossal black desk and bookshelves against the wall to frame it. A computer monitor and keyboard, a stack of paper, knickknacks, and a glass of water decorate the top. Before it rests an oriental carpet, red and black and gold, patterns too advanced for my eyes to fully memorize. I avoid looking at the man behind the desk.

The women who sat by Tiberias, presumably his wife, stands by the desk, resting a dainty, manicured hand on it. She wears a yellow sundress. Approaching, I decide she's too pretty, unnaturally pretty, with her long eyelashes seen from ten feet away, porcelain skin, and waved pale blonde hair. She doesn't look happy to be here, in this room, with me, and she's not hiding it. As if I'm interrupting her schedule. Though a bit of intrigue is in her cold-as-ice blue eyes.

Cal and his unnamed brother lean against one of their father's bookshelves, on the other side of the desk from their mother. Cal's brother watches me carefully, assessing. Then there's Cal, with a neutral face, or trying to appear neutral, anyway. I've seen far better poker faces.

"Sit," Tiberias orders, and I'm startled when I realize I've traveled but a few feet from the desk. "You, too, Lucas."

Lucas pulls out one of the two chairs in front of the desk for me, and I sink into it, no longer able to avert my eyes at fancy chandeliers or foreign carpets. Lucas sits down beside me, and I'm glad for it, even if he's not truly on my side.

The man I face is Cal, but twenty years older. Age is the single distinction, as far as I can tell. The two have the same broad and muscled build, fiery eyes, and black hair, the former with grey streaks in his. He wears a white button-up shirt, and he picks me apart, hair by hair, prior to speaking.

"Where, girl, do you dance?"  _Present tense_.

It's not rhetorical. I give him the name of my studio, which has probably changed since I've been there.

"Never heard of it. Have you?" Tiberias looks at Cal, who still leans impassively again the shelf.

Cal shakes his head.

"It's in East Harlem, and it never made a name for itself," I say, putting it simply. "No one's heard of it. For all I know, it could be closed."

The last part sparks another question, and I picture his voice asking it while they take in my explanation.

The woman's hand fists up, from the corner of my eye. It's she who asks it. "What do you mean, for all you know, it could be closed? You don't dance there anymore?" Even her voice is something else, syrupy, too sweet. I don't like her. But the feeling is mutual, based on her air; she isn't the kind of person who likes anybody.

Tiberias steeples his fingers, leaning forward on his elbows. Awaiting my response.

Past him are the bookshelves, five of them total, pushed together to create one whole unit. Each one is a good eight feet tall, five feet wide. The titles are small and too far to read, but I wonder what they're about. Dance, obviously, but Lucas also mentioned the Calores have business dealings. Yes, some must be business publications.

The Calores are filthy rich. And dance doesn't create billionaires, no matter how successful one can run a company. What is their second business?

"A year and a half ago, I broke my leg," I start. This story isn't a pleasant one for me to tell. I've already told it to Cal, against good judgement. "It was stupid, but after the hospital bills, my family couldn't afford to pay tuition. Bills were already killing them. So they pulled me out." I tell the tale with no self-pity. It's gotten worse, since then. My brothers can't hold jobs, Shade left even before I broke my leg, and tips are dry at Mom's hotel.

I didn't ask to go back when I recovered.

The Calore family could afford to pay for one-hundred girls' hospital checkups and bills, and then one-hundred girls' dance tuition. I hope he doesn't register the anger in my face.

"Yet your performance..." Tiberias says, "was good."

 _Not perfect. Needs improvement_. I shift in my seat. But I was called up into his office. It must mean I did something right. "My tibia healed faster than expected. I've continued to practice on my own time, and that's why I've retained most of my skills. It's not ideal...but I can't afford to start taking classes again."

"Prodigy," Cal's brother says.

"That's not normal." Tiberias taps his fingers on the desk, evidently mulling his ideas over. "Do you dance other genres as well? As Lucas told you, I'd like to offer you a position at the Academy, but I don't know enough to place you."

"Ballet is what I'm strongest with, but I was also trained in tap, jazz, and hip hop. It was a strange studio. We did dance competitions but also trained for professional ballet."  _None of us were ever talented enough, though_. I hold his gaze, intent on hiding my anticipation. I won't act like a giddy schoolgirl in front of them. I can cry—and vomit, if needed—later.

"I'd have you audition for the other genres, but it wouldn't be time well spent. I don't know how much you know about the Manhattan Dance Academy, but ballet is our main genre. We train year-round in it, and perform at the Metropolitan Opera House throughout the year."  _Huh. I thought they only performed in the spring. Bigger than I thought._

"Fall is typically the off-season, and it's then our ballet dancers have time to focus on tap, contemporary, ballroom, and whatever else they please if they have experience in it while still keeping up with ballet. During our performing months, there isn't time for extra genres, unless that's your major. And we are world-renowned for those programs."

I nod repeatedly at the information he's throwing at me.

"As you saw, Evangeline Samos is an incredible dancer, not only in ballet. She has the rest of her auditions later today for the tap, contemporary, jazz, and hip hop groups she'll be placed in for the fall. But for ballet particularly, at the Academy we pair our dancers off, so they dance with one person throughout the year. Partners aren't always together, but for the most part during duets, they are. This year, Evangeline will be dancing with my son, Cal. I assume you've already met him."

"Yes," I say. "But I don't follow."

"Despite your...background," Tiberias begins, and I bite my tongue, nails digging into leather chair arms, "you are extraordinarily talented. I've never heard of your East Harlem studio, and honestly a dancer like you shouldn't exist if you're from that part of town. But if you promise to not sue us for falling from the stage rafters and blame yourself in any media attention you might get...you'll have a role."

I nod at him, not surprised by his demands. I wasn't planning on telling anybody anyway, but if my silence benefits me—

"I'd like for you to become my younger son's partner." Tiberias doesn't even turn around to look at his other child as he says it. 

The boy standing next to Cal...his jaw nearly drops. So does mine. He gives me a look over, unsure what to make of this. Neither do I.

_This is insane._

_This is insane._

_This is insane._

"She doesn't even know my name," the boy says, displeased, and I'd be offended if I wasn't so shocked. If Cal's the best dancer at the Academy, then his brother must also be sought-out as a partner. 

"Mare Barrow, meet Maven Calore," Tiberias drawls.

He's a couple of inches shorter than Cal, hair thick and skimming his ears. His hair has the slightest of curl to it. And he doesn't have his father's eyes, but his mother's unforgiving icy blue. Maven wears workout clothes, like Cal. His shoes are obscured by the desk.

"I've never even talked to her," Maven pleads quietly. Timid. He stares at the back of his father's head, begging him to turn around. Tiberias continues his unwavering gaze towards me. "I've met the other girls in the running. None of us have spoken with her before today, and you're giving her an elite position?"

"I am. You know better than to question my wisdom, Maven. You two will compliment each other as dancers. Unless you're not interested in having a partner this season at all. Elara?"

The woman's name. She purses her lips. "Your father's correct, Maven. She's a fine dancer, and she'll compliment you."

Cal elbows his brother.

"Yes, father," Maven says, yielding.

To be honest, I feel bad for the boy. Though he is younger than Cal, he seems...secondary. When Cal arrived from backstage, announcing his arrival to his father—dad is too peasant-like—Tiberias said  _your brother scored in your place_. In Cal's place. Like they couldn't afford to have a fourth judge.

Lucas told me to not rattle off my mouth, but if he hadn't, I'd suggest  _pairing_ mewith another dancer, for Maven's sake. I'm already walking a thin wire, though, and the last thing I want to do is get myself kicked out of this place for stepping out of line when I'm hardly  _on the line_.

For my selfish sake, I swallow my comments, pushing further into the chair. It'll even itself out.

Tiberias says to Lucas, "We should resume auditions. Give her the papers. And a pamphlet. It has everything she'll need to understand. And her day and a half's pay."

I was tempted, but I would've gone to Ann, not asked the owner himself for the money. Another way to for sure get me kicked out of the building and put on a "no entrance" list for my attitude. Maybe I'll buy myself a present. Just this once.

"Thank you." I push out of my chair.

I catch Maven's blank face again, staring ahead into nothing, before Lucas and I turn to leave.

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

I take the front entrance out, happy for the change of clothes I keep in my bag. My family would be confused, concerned, if I came home in a uniform not too different from Mom's.

Besides. I don't need more scrutiny from the dancers in the lobby with that red menace of a shirt.

There are a stack of papers and a hefty pamphlet in my bag, along with a hundred dollars, crumpled-up black pants—I returned the shirt to the Maids' Quarters—and the ballet uniform they're letting me keep. I'm greeted with blowing humidity as I step outside. Shade's not wrong. We need a nice, long downpour to wash out this heatwave.

_Again, I swear if this heat keeps going on, the dawn's going to start sweating red._

The second-to-last line of his letter sticks with me, and I don't know why. It was a weird way to end a message, not entirely making sense. Did he mean the sky's going to sweat blood? I've heard of it happening in cases of extreme stress. But no, Shade isn't poetic like that. Unless he's changed since living at home, but...

_Rise, Red as the Dawn._

Farley's last words from her terrorist-video come to mind. Following her " _the rich are corrupt; we will destroy you,_ " speech, she finished the broadcast with the Street Fighter's apparent motto, but it didn't make sense. An inside joke, but minus the joke, apparently.

I put the pieces together.  _Dawn. Red._

Shade was wearing nice clothes when I saw him, nothing like what he wore at home. And when Mom asked if he had gotten involved with a gang last year, Shade paused. As though Shade, even tough Shade, struggled to lie to his own mother.

The Scarlet Street Fighters are indeed a gang.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Yesterday, I gave myself...a break.

I didn't go into Will's store to yell at him about the Scarlet Street Fighters or to demand if he knew where Shade or Farley was. I didn't steal the family phone from Gisa—it's a miracle our apartment has free Wi-Fi—to search for information pertaining to the gang. Or even reread Shade's letter, because the wording wasn't going to change; I remember it clearly.

I also haven't so much as flipped open the pamphlet or gone through the papers nestled in my bag or considered how to tell my family the news. I came home, dropped off the pickpocket money I forced myself to collect in a subway station, retreated to my room, and stashed the bag under my bed. 

Gisa was in bed when I knelt down to stow it. Up until this week, I rarely carried anything, but with the maid's job, having something to put a spare set of clothes in was nice, even if it seemed weird to my family. Fortunately, none of them noticed the change during the two days, and Gisa was too mopey to ask last night. Mom and Dad especially don't care to  _notice_ anything related to my old profession. 

 _Because that's what it is now._ _Pickpocketing is dangerous, you've said it yourself. You can't risk injury anymore._  

My fellow passengers almost shove me off the subway with them at the stop before mine. I cling to the metallic bar at the end of a blue bench, keeping a close eye on my bag, its handle resting on my shoulder. The crowded areas are where you're most susceptible to theft, and the subway is among the worst. I should know. I've pickpocketed on subways and in subway stations plenty. 

If she wasn't so damn right, I'd be constantly angry with the rational half of me.

Yesterday was the last time I'll ever pickpocket, if this whole dance thing works out. Though I haven't the faintest idea how it will.

The subway doors glide shut and the metro starts up again, the speeding, gliding motion returning me to my thoughts. 

First off, my partner doesn't like me. Though I was as flabbergasted as he was at his father's proposition—no, not a proposition, but an ultimatum. Either have me as his partner, or have no partner at all. And Maven's not wrong; he doesn't know me; he knows the girls who already study at the Academy.

But if he has a grudge against the lower class, a petty rich boy, then we'll have a problem. Not my problem for now, though; Tiberias seems to control his son well enough, and I have no power over the situation. When classes start, then I'll try to make friends with him, make our partnership less miserable for the both of us.

My big problem I've previously said is my family. I've figured the Academy is a four mile walk from the apartment, or more realistically, a thirty-minute commute, between walking a few blocks and taking the subway. 

The transportation part is easy enough, but the class hours will ruin me. A lot of my questions, including those concerning my soon-to-be schedule, could be solved by looking in the pamphlet, my bag fabric the only barrier between it and my hand, but out of some fear, I've avoided it. Lucas said classes start in a week, next Monday, after they announce placements on Saturday evening. He also told me auditions go through Friday.

No matter what, I will be getting home late. Late to the point where I'll have to tell the truth about where I am all day long, or else come up with a hell of a lie to cover me. I shouldn't feel the need to lie to my family, achieving a dream I thought was lost, and yet...I'm still responsible for breaking Gisa's hand, shattering  _her_ dreams. It doesn't feel okay for me to be the sister who comes out on top so soon. 

I was planning on telling them, but the second I got into the apartment, saw Tramy slumped in front of the TV, Mom slaving in the kitchen...I couldn't.

And I'm seventeen. I don't have the free will of an adult, like Shade did when he decided to leave. If my parents find out I'm dancing again and spending my days with rich folk, they have the ability to pull me out. They wouldn't, but there's a creeping unease telling me to wait and think. 

The good news: I have a week to ponder it.

The subway begins to slow, screeching, and I loosen my grip on the handrail as the train goes from slow to unmoving with a small jerk, sending everybody on board shifting their feet.

Today's task doesn't involve dance, but it's carrying me close to the Calores, not two blocks west. The proximity makes me anxious, even if I won my place there and have nothing to be ashamed of. If any of them see me...optimistically, they're all cooped up in the auditorium, watching auditions, but there's a chance stressed-out dancers are out for fresh air and will take note of me. 

 _Which is why_  I'm wearing my black baseball cap and completely unremarkable clothing. If I keep my head down, there won't be an issue. 

I'm just going to the library.

I hop off the train, fast-walking to escape the torrent of oncoming passengers behind me. The station is no different from the hundreds of others throughout the city, with its dingy tiles, painted support beams, and white fluorescents. 

Each set of stairs has a central landing, making for a total of twenty stairs. I take two steps at a time, reach the top, and cross the ticketing room for another set. The same gross, artificial lighting greets my eyes, and I hurry up, wanting to feel the sun on my skin, even if I lose the coolness of being underground. Shade's message carries a newfound dark meaning, but I still wouldn't mind a rain.

Off to the edge of the ticketing area I pass, there's a band of four, consisting of a guitar player, a drummer, and two singers, a male and female. The guitar case at their feet with stray dollars reminds me of the money I carry from my day and a half of work.

I clear the second set and exit the subway station, quickly checking that the cash is still in my possession out of paranoia. Five twenty dollar bills, safely tucked in a zipper pocket. 

Within a minute, sweat is prickling on my underarms. Overhead, it's another cloudless day, the shadows of buildings the only defense combating a blazing sun. 

The station exit is at the library's side, and I continue around the corner for the main entrance. In Manhattan alone, there are dozens of public libraries, but this is the largest, one of the largest in the world, to be precise. I could've stayed closer to home; no chance of running into Academy dancers there, but...this one's nice.

Besides. I need to get away from home for my research, for my sanity. The less opulent library near my apartment is quiet and reminds me of my family for some reason. Here, at the main library hardly off from Times Square, it's significantly louder, in spite of the librarians' will. 

I skip stairs, weaving through those sitting on the steps, the white-marble building shimmering ahead in the intense heat. I take a moment to admire the massive columns and shaped windows before I enter, greeted with blasting air conditioning and new people.

My sister's the reader of the family, so she probably knows the building better than I do. She comes a lot for school research. But with the cool air to motivate me, I approach a security officer and open my bag for him. I look up so my cap doesn't obscure my face. 

If he has the snark Lucas had when I first met him, he doesn't show it. The officer shines a flashlight in my bag and nods, deeming me safe and irrelevant.

I sling the bag over my shoulder and make my way further into the entryway. It's an old building, columns and marble and pale stone inside, very similar to the outside and comparable to a palace you'd find in a fairy tale book. I decide that I have no idea where I'm heading and pull over to a map of the facility bolted with a glass case into the wall.

It doesn't take long for me to get called out on my confusion. "Is there anything I can help you with?" a woman asks behind me too quickly. 

I twirl, embarrassed. Library staff, based on her outfit and overenthusiastic smile. I must look utterly lost.

"Could I use a computer somewhere?" The question sounds stupid, but I don't have the energy to rephrase it.

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

The woman takes me to a room full of computers, as promised.

The room itself is beautiful and reminds me of the Academy. With its white marble, orangish tiles, chandeliers, and colossal bookshelves taking up the lower part of an entire wall and half of both adjacent walls. They're filled with colorful reference books, too thick for me to take a second glance at as I walk by, searching for a vacant computer. 

Above the shelved wall are arched windows, metal bars creating little boxes within them. Higher, as high as the Academy's stage rafters, is the ceiling, gilded and carved, acting as a frame for the life-like painting of a pink-clouded sky in its center. 

Away from the rows of wooden tables, chairs, and computers, is a massive librarians' counter, stretching from one side of the room to the other and extending further outward in the middle. 

While the library has an abundance of books, it's also a legitimate museum, packed with tourists, students, and scholars, but I find a computer at the end of the back row, to my pleasure, sitting down so nobody else can claim it. 

I log on, entering a browser, thankful I don't have to type in my library card to access the internet. But even if I had to, it shouldn't matter. With the scale of the Scarlet Street Fighter's attack on the rich, it should be this week's headline and nothing peculiar to be searching for.

I'm here for information on the Scarlet Street Fighters. I need to know who they are and what their goal is, other than their exposing and bringing down the rich drivel. Everything about the group is vague to me, other than the violence going on because of it, and that Shade Barrow and Diana Farley are part of it.

The thought of my brother being involved with her gang sends chills skittering across my spine, and maybe it would be best if I kept myself oblivious the way my parents do. They rarely have the news on at home and unless Mom's heard something at work, neither of them will know of the attacks unless they read the paper.

I type 'Scarlet Street Fighters,' into Google, holding my breath. 

My eyes scan result after result, and I dim the screen, continuing to scroll, reading the headlines. 

_Terrorist Group, Dubbed The "Scarlet Street Fighters," Vows Revenge Against Local Billionaires._

_Cygnet Hydrotech, Along With Sister Businesses, Targeted By Radical "Scarlet Street Fighters."_

_The "Scarlet Street Fighters" and the Mysterious Blonde Woman Who Plunged Manhattan Into Chaos._

_Bloody Street Fighters—What We Know So Far._

The search results are miles-long. The articles are written by  _The_   _New York Times_ and other well-known, esteemed news companies, though the last title sounds a bit... _tabloidish_. 

My job having kept me busy, I haven't had the time or brainpower to consider Farley's message, not until I walked outside yesterday afternoon—and realized what my brother's been doing with his time. 

I should've made the connection when first reading Shade's letter, and I feel stupid for not realizing it sooner, or following up on the attack in general. I haven't checked in on Kilorn either, and the guilt I feel for it tugs at me to go home.

I click on the first result,  _Terrorist Group, Dubbed The "Scarlet Street Fighters," Vows Revenge Against Local Billionaires_ , wishing they had a website or a Twitter profile for me to follow. 

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

If it was time well spent, I couldn't tell you. 

I read the first four articles listed and then a couple at random, before giving up and stalking out of the library to its adjoining park. 

From what I gathered, the NYPD is searching for leads twenty-four-seven and aching to get their claws on a Street Fighter; I'm guessing the detectives' fervor in this case is from Mister Cygnet's—the billionaire owner of a hydroelectric company trying to bring more renewable energy into the city—generous donation to the police department. 

Prior to to the attack, the Scarlet Street Fighters were just another gang, with slightly different motives. Usually gangs are after drugs or money, but this one's not associated with any illegal businesses. I've heard stories of members ambushing greedy barons in alleys and parking garages and ending up dead, thanks to ruthless bodyguards. But before a member dies, he or she always tells the target who wants them dead. The Street Fighters single out the corruptly rich, and have been attempting hit jobs (and occasionally succeeding) for three or four years. But this is the first time they've had a notable success and more than a footer in the media.

 _Millions of dollars of destruction_ , the news lady said. They may have not killed anyone, but they did a hell of a job in destroying the place without getting caught. Offices were obliterated: desks and stacks of documents were burned and then the flames were put out, threats were written in red paint on walls, and a ridiculous number of computers and tablets were stolen. 

In the labs of the corporations is where the most damage occurred, where the  _millions of dollars_ part starts to be convincing. Hydropower research and miniature prototypes were burned at Cygnet Hydrotech, and similar events of "vandalism" took place at its sister companies. I'd hardly call it vandalism. This was brutal, systematic crime.

I can't help but agree with the articles. They're terrorists. There's talk of the FBI getting involved, especially after Farley and her crew hacked a news network to broadcast their message. The New York Police supposedly have a handle on it, but if something happens again...I hate the rich too, but this is complete anarchy. 

What baffles me is how they pulled it off. There weren't any reported deaths, meaning the buildings were vacated, which alone is odd. No night watch security guards or late-night researchers, and the fire alarms and security systems were disabled. 

And aside from the attack, nobody knows where they came from. The Street Fighters popped up in the city a few years ago with their radical beliefs and violence. They only attack in Manhattan, logical, as most big-shot corporations are wedged in the borough. The police have no inkling where in the city they might be based, and they've had no luck in tracking down Cygnet's stolen tech. 

I slump into a wrought-iron chair on the big lawn at the backside of the library, one of many scattered among tables throughout the tree-fenced area. It's sweltering, yet plenty of people are out, sitting in chairs and on grass, and children run around the trees. 

So I did learn something. I'm just debating if I have use for it or not. And I  _just_ want Shade to be safe. 

 _No use in thinking about it_. I adjust my cap so it covers my eyes. 

The papers in my bag are a sudden itch now that there's little I can do against the Street Fighters. 

_I have to look at them at some point._

Almost growling to myself, I yank my bag onto the grass, unzipping it. The ballet uniform and black pants are still in it, and with Gisa always in our bedroom, they're probably not coming out soon. I sift through the heap of clothing, hand knocking the wood of my pointe shoe, and grab the papers and pamphlet. 

They're kind of crunched up, and I wince, flattening them on the table. The pamphlet's on top, the size of a folded sheet of paper, with the papers clipped beneath. 

The cover of the pamphlet reads  _Manhattan Dance Academy_ , with a flame, small and black, under the text. What does it signify? Above are nine boxes, three rows and three columns, a photograph of a separate genre of dance within each. Ballet, tap, classical ballroom...aerial silks dancing?

Blinking, I see why auditions for placements might have to go on all week. World renowned indeed. 

Flipping open the book, there's an introductory sentence. 

 

_At the Manhattan Dance Academy, there is not a form of dance we do not teach or do not rejoice in sharing with the world._

_~TCVI_

 

The Sixth? You've got to be kidding me. 

On the next page, there's a doctrine, explaining the Academy's origins, teachings, expectations, and ambitions. 

 _Tiberias Calore the Sixth_ descends from a long line of dancers and businessmen, and seeks to uphold their legacies, so he splits his time between the Academy and lower Manhattan. Turns out the Calore family's second business is right off of Wall Street and has something to do with investments and finance; the information in the pamphlet doesn't go into further detail. 

The Academy has long been under the instruction of the Calores, evolving from strictly classical ballet to a wide range of dance within the past half century. As it is a  _world renowned_ company that is  _paying_ men and women to dance, the owners—Tiberias and his wife, Elara Merandus—expect nothing but the very best from their students, and pride themselves on being able to turn the young into dancing prodigies. 

Prodigy was the word Maven used to describe me, before he found out he'd be dancing with me as his partner. 

It isn't normal for seventeen year olds to be dancing at an elite professional level. Maven must be my age, Cal's a year or two older, and Evangeline and the other girls who auditioned can't be over twenty either. Most ballet companies don't name principal dancers until they're thirty years old or older. But at the Academy, the best dancers range from eighteen to thirty-five. Lucas said Evangeline was bred to dance for the Calores; a weird way to say it, but maybe it's true for a lot of the younger dancers. 

They strive to be the best dance theatre in the world, having performed in many countries, while basing their training in Manhattan. They want everyone to know the name  _Manhattan Dance Academy_. 

I skim the rest of the pages, mostly photos from shows, and then some information about each genre taught, opportunities that come with it, and its levels. 

It's a giant pyramid, with the Calores on top. There must be hundreds and hundreds of people who dance in the building, between the different genres and tiers; they also offer intensive training to tweens and teens, prepping them for when they audition right out of high school—for a price.  _Ha._

The whole setup is strange, with Evangeline being  _trained_ to dance for the Calores. Parents push their children to become doctors and lawyers, but not dancers. It's amazing, and I wish I was in the same situation—it would solve my problems—but it's also strange. Very strange.

I brush off the thought with a low, jealous chuckle, shuffling the pamphlet to the bottom of the stack to view the papers, ignoring the instinct telling me I'm way over my head.


	15. Chapter 15

"You can't join a gang wanted for millions of dollars of damage," I argue with Kilorn, who stands in his apartment's doorway. 

My friend rolls his eyes. "You stayed away longer than I thought you would. I was starting to think you decided I wasn't worth the trouble."

I smile at him, though it's wreathed in contempt. He has _no clue_ what crap I've been through this week, between Shade and the Academy and the stupid Street Fighters. "Well?" I ask, not considering for a second if telling Kilorn about my week is a good course of action. "Have you tracked them down yet?"

Kilorn keeps his face blank, and it's an effort not to snarl at him. We're not usually like this, but after meeting Farley and reading into the attacks, I can't be anything but harsh. It's the only way I can hope to grind it into Kilorn's brain that this is the worst idea he's ever had. 

"No," he says and lets out a sigh. The small defeat lets me relax my shoulders. "I haven't."

It's funny how I know the grocer downstairs has ties to the gang and could get Kilorn connected but he doesn't. He also hasn't met Farley, the current face of the Street Fighters. And he definitely doesn't have a brother as a member; Kilorn happens to have the luxury of being an only child. 

"I gave you time," I say, chewing my lip. "You don't like me nagging you and whatever, but don't be stupid, Kilorn Warren."

He stares at me, breathing heavier than normal. "I don't have a job. I dropped out of school last year. I want to make something right and be responsible for it." Kilorn is also high school dropout. He didn't see the point in graduating from a sub-par school and trying to go to college.

I get it. I really do. There's an allure to joining the Street Fighters and becoming bigger than yourself, doing something to battle the corrupt, even though it's not lawful. "I've already lost a brother," I say, leaving it in the air for Kilorn to decide how Shade's doing. "A lot of them die. I don't want to lose my best friend too."

"You're not going to lose—"

"You don't know," I mutter in all seriousness. 

With nothing left to say, I turn for the stairs leading up to my apartment. Our conversation was supposed to last longer, but between my explosive temper and Kilorn's newfound stubbornness, we're in a gridlock. 

Kilorn isn't the type to make false promises, so he doesn't bother telling me he'll be careful or reconsider before slamming the door after him. I shake my head to myself, climbing up the stairs. 

I've been climbing a lot of stairs lately. 

This morning, when Mom and Gee were out again buying new medical provisions and groceries, I finally had the chance to roll over my dance supplies into a duffel bag, save for the shoes I keep on the roof. 

Classes are in four days, and I've spent most of my time up there, playing an insane game of catch-up. Everybody thinks I leave the apartment and head downtown, but I'm usually right up on the roof. I haven't brought home money this week, and my family's noticed the change, but none of them have said anything. Mom and Dad are probably glad, hoping if they keep their mouths shut, I'll give up the habit altogether. Though we desperately need it, with my brothers unemployed and Dad struggling to keep a consistent job.

Up on the roof, I spend hours tapping and making up jazz combinations, hunting for weaknesses in my technique. I haven't actually tapped since dancing in the studio, which is unnerving, considering I'll be dancing in an advanced tap class next week. So I've reviewed most of my tap and modern dance: checking I  _actually_ can do moves in tap shoes, rather than in socks on my bedroom floor, and loosen up and dance hip hop.

I'm good with ballet, so I've done minimal practice, focusing on tap, jazz, and hip hop, the genres I told Tiberias—under further pamphlet reading, I learned he isn't the sixth person in a row to be named that; the family seems to break it up every few generations, to my relief—I had performed at my studio. 

Rolling out my neck, stiff from spending another whole day dancing, I approach my apartment. My spiel to Kilorn ended up not being a spiel at all, but a short-lived argument. I took so long to knock on his door both because I was scared of his reaction to me and because of planning out how I'd bicker against his reasoning. And  a minute-long conversation comes out of it. 

I enter my apartment, and Mom, Dad, and Gisa are sitting in the living room, Dad in his wheelchair, covered by a blanket. The TV's off; the apartment is unnaturally quiet without it. Tramy and Bree are nowhere in sight, and it's just me, my sister, and my parents in our shabby  _house_.

Each of the members of my family turn their heads from the wall ahead to me, gawking at me, a puzzle to be solved. Out of the three, Gisa looks the most concerned, fiddling with her braid Mom did. She can't do it herself with her broken hand. 

Something happened. Something's wrong, by their faces.

My first thought is Tramy and Bree are missing, and for a heartbeat, I imagine Mom and Dad telling me my brothers have left, gone wherever Shade is. 

But with a glance, the door to their bedroom is closed. They're probably lying on their beds in there, accomplishing nothing. 

"What is it?" I ask, taking a step towards them. I feel awkward in front of my family, the three of them not daring to say what's on their minds. I can fake a smile in front an audience, but I struggle here, not knowing what to say or do. "Is this about the pickpocketing?" I think fast; a pause will give me away. "I'm sorry I haven't collected much this week, I've been nervous after Wall Street and Gee."

A half-truth. I've collected since then, wearily, watching out for those who have as fine of reflexes as Cal. 

"What's wrong?" I ask again. Another step. Whatever they're meaning to tell me, clearly they didn't plan on how to convey it. Mom and Dad exchange a look, and my sister bites her lip. 

Gisa speaks up. "I wasn't snooping, I promise," she says, and I raise my brows. A chat starting this way can't be good. "I went under your bed for some colored pencils. You used to keep art supplies under there, I figured you still might. I wanted to work on coordination with my other hand." 

She found my duffel bag full of dance supplies. There's nothing else under there but a bunch of discarded books and clothes inside storage containers. "And?" I ask, playing it off as nothing. It's not strange to hold onto them, though my parents wanted me to throw them out long ago for resolve.  _Not a big deal_. 

"You still have your old dance stuff," Mom says. "Not to mention a leotard and a pair of pointe shoes I don't remember buying for you."

I try to walk, perch myself on the window ledge instead of standing at the door, clearly apart from my family, three-to-one, but I'm riveted in place, my thighs leaden and my feet nailed to the floor. I've made it my priority for absolutely nobody to know I've kept my dance shoes—it would mortify me if they knew I practiced in them. This is a confrontation. 

She thinks I shoplifted the new shoes and leotard, not paying attention to the missing pairs, on the roof as of now. 

"We thought you were over this, Mare," Dad chimes in, and I will myself to be composed. "It was fine when you were little and when I was working a decent income job, but after your leg..." he trails off, and I don't want to hear more. "If you're practicing on your own...it's unrealistic, to tell you the truth. I'm sorry. But you can't steal these things from stores. You can't pickpocket random people off the streets."

There it is. The disapproval Dad's been holding onto for so long, always on his face but never on his lips. 

"I didn't..."  _steal them_. "I didn't..."  _steal them_.  _A very rich family gave them to me, along with a job as an elite dancer for their company. Didn't you look in the side pocket of the bag? Didn't you see the papers?_

Unrealistic. I've danced in my room every day since the doctors cleared me for activity, and they think I'm wasting my time. The irony of Gisa finding my shoes and leotard days after I landed myself a position at the Manhattan Dance Academy is too much, and I want to fall to the floor and burst out laughing. 

"I—"

"You're almost eighteen," Mom says gently. I almost think she's going to rise up from her seat on the couch to give me a rub on the shoulder and a hug, but she stays firmly rooted, as do I. "High school didn't work out, but you could test for your GED, attend a community college. This pickpocketing...and shoplifting...isn't safe or right."

Dad hasn't seen me dance in years. One of the last times he went outside was for a recital, but following the accident, he leaves the apartment for almost nothing. Mom missed my two most recent performances, pulling extra hours at the hotel. Gisa's gone silent. 

"And what about dance?" I ask. They won't understand what I mean by it.

Mom and Dad stare blankly at me. Gisa examines her hand.

"What about it?" Dad asks. 

"Did you ever think I was any good?"

Dad opens his mouth, but Mom cuts him off with a sharp, "Daniel."

" _Ruth,_ " he says anyway.

They've discussed this before. If my classes were worth it, if the money was  _worth it_. Because it's common knowledge that dancers who go to dinky, rundown studios never go anywhere with their talent. They would've pulled me sooner if they had the chance, the balls  _to take away the one thing I was ever good at_.

"We haven't seen you dance in years, Mare," Dad says. He speaks slowly, as if I'm some kind of wild animal who will bite if he shows the slightest sign of agitation. 

I nod my head, agreeing with him. " _You_ haven't, Dad. You haven't seen me dance since I was a little, little girl. Mom missed my last two competitions, but otherwise she was there. I would've performed a solo at the recital had I not broken my leg. It was going to be the opening act, and I would've begged you to come."

Tears burn in my eyes. I don't back down, though, staring at them with all the intensity, all the blame in the world. I performed the solo on Sunday, in front of a crowd of six-hundred, and my family will never know it. They wouldn't believe me if I told them. A wild, wild fantasy of mine, they'd say. I'm not even sure if the papers would be enough evidence.

"Why does it matter?" Dad barks, giving up the calm pretense. "Did you really believe you had a shot at becoming a professional dancer? People like us...we're not meant to be stars, honey. We're meant to work for a living and expect food and shelter in return. Shoplifting shoes, continuing to practice even without an instructor, isn't changing that."

It wasn't just the money, but also a bone-deep doubt and lack of faith. It was a hobby to them and a passion for me. A way of life. Another piece of my heart cracks off.

My mouth quirks into a frown, and I decide against telling them the truth. No, they wouldn't believe me in the first place. My position at the Academy might last a very short amount of time anyway. 

But Cal believes I'm capable of this. So do the others, even if they don't say it. My family would too, if they could see me. 

"Your father means he wants you to have a safe, decent life, Mare," Mom amends, trying to fix Dad's harshness. They keep using my name while they talk to me and I can't stand it. "You loved to dance, but it's not possible anymore. So it's best if you try to let go."

 _You never supported me,_  I want to say.

A new plan begins forming. "Fine. Shoplifting shoes won't change that," I whisper, acquiescing. "I won't steal from now on. I'll land a job, and then I'll grow up." 

"We're looking out for you," Mom says, pressing her lips together. Mom, who wears her maid's uniform and has her greying hair in a misshapen ponytail. 

My legs feel less heavy and the nails come out of my feet, and I walk across the room with my arms crossed. "Thanks Gee, by the way, for ratting me out." I glance at my sister.

"Mom walked in on me," Gisa mutters. 

"We'll see you for dinner?" Mom asks, motherly-worry coating her tone.

"Yes," I state, monotone, walking the rest of the distance to my room and slamming my bedroom door behind me. 

The scene switches in an instant, going from being a  _loud, accusing_ room to quiet and small. My bedroom looks the same as always, yet something has changed. Something has changed in this entire apartment. 

The open bag is fully exposed, pulled out between my bed and Gisa's. My brand-new pair of pointe shoes sits at the top, incriminating me, but sure enough, the side pocket holding the Academy's papers is untouched. Why Gisa felt the need to look in my bag for colored pencils doesn't click; she must've been curious, recognizing it from the family closet where we store our extra junk.

As much as I need to, I don't slink down against my bedroom door and sob my eyes out. I lift the large bag up onto my bed, assessing what I'll be able to bring with me. 

The shoes and dance clothes don't take up a lot of space, and I stuff shirt after shirt inside, bending a drawer lower for pants. Two pairs of jeans, leggings, some shorts...I go to the top drawer, pulling out my underwear and socks and bras, shoving them into another side pocket of my bag. 

I've never collected knickknacks or security objects, so I look around my room and find nothing else worth bringing with me, besides for a family photograph tucked under the clock on my nightstand. I'll have to stop at a drugstore to buy toothpaste and a brush, along with soap and some other hygiene products. 

Ripping a sheet of paper from out of Gisa's stray notebook, formerly used for drawing up designs, a pencil lying beside it, I write my family a note:

 

_An opportunity has presented itself, and I have to chase it. I'm sorry if you don't understand. I'll send money, and I promise I'll come visit soon._

 

Outside my room, Dad's flicked the TV on and Mom's bustling away in the kitchen, so the sound I'm making doesn't matter, though I'm cautious of my volume. I leave the note on my bed and zip my duffel bag. 

I heave it out the window and climb over the barrier myself, pushing the window shut before I hurry up the fire escape to go and retrieve my other shoes. 

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

It's almost seven o'clock when I reach the Academy and find Lucas guarding its front door. 

"Moving in so soon?" he asks, nodding at my bag. The sun's beginning to dip below the taller buildings, throwing the streets into shadows. It's still in the mid-eighties, though, and my forehead sweats under my baseball cap.

"Yes," I return, trying to be calm. "I looked at the schedule and saw my last class won't be finished until ten-thirty at night. My apartment's too far away for the travel to be worth it."

It's not the commute. It was never the commute.

It's dinnertime at home, and I'm not there. They've found the note by now, no better than the goodbye Shade gave our family. Mom's crying, Gisa's on the verge of tears, and Dad's brooding. My brothers have come out of their room to find out what the commotion's over; they act like it's  _no big deal_ , but inside, their hearts are beating too fast.

Maybe I'm naive and idiotic, but I couldn't let this chance go. I found out a painful truth this evening. So I wrote them a note explaining what I was doing in as few words as possible, not entirely making sense. 

Lucas moves towards the door. His eyes are sympathetic, as if he knows what happened. My stage face must not be very good tonight. "Come on. I'll set you up."


	16. Chapter 16

 

 _I was impulsive and rash_.

The thought has clinged to me since the moment I woke up in my hotel-like room, and clings to me still, over the bellowing music of the auditorium.

Lucas and I stopped at an office in charge of room management to get my key before heading up further to the tenth story, where my escort unlocked one of its cookie-cutter doors after walking down a hallway and turning. Handing me the key, he said a "good night," and pulled the door shut after him, leaving me to my own devices.

The room, which I cleaned somewhere along the line, was of little interest to me last night. I chose sleep, rather than exploring and unpacking, slumping into a generously-sized queen bed, its white sheets and pillows too soft and its comforter thick enough to be too hot, even with the air conditioning.

This morning I bothered with unpacking, setting out my small collection of toiletries on the bathroom counter and folding my clothes in a dresser. Even then, I didn't look at the appliances in the kitchen, which  I'll have to buy food for, or out the window, or what channels were on the television.

Instead of watching TV, I went through my pointe exercises in the living room, pushing a chair out of my way to dance. I showered and dragged myself out in search of breakfast. As much as I didn't want to, I had to eat.

After, I came here. To the auditorium.

Up several rows down the center are Cal and his parents, heads tilted to judge the dancers. I wouldn't know it's them if not for the lack of people surrounding the three, none ahead and none behind for five rows. But standing out, Elara's pale hair is stark and obvious to me, Tiberias's and Cal's darker, but seen easily enough.

The back doors are open, light pouring in. The theatre itself is less crowded than it was on Sunday, the hype of the auditions having died off. At best, a third of the seats are filled, and I'm glad I was able to find a spot without many around me. I still wear my cap as a precaution.

Today they're testing the hip hop dancers, each of them straying wildly from the standard ballet uniform I wore to my performance. The girl currently onstage is all colors, wearing a pair of orange Nike, forest-green leggings, and a baggy violet jacket. They also play music for the hip hop auditions, which I don't find particularly fair, though her dance is faster-paced than mine.

The beat is psychedelic and fun, and she has the audience—including me—clapping along. The girl sells her performance, flipping and jumping and twisting, bending her arms and legs in ways ballerinas never do. Her merry grin and ease of motion stirs jealousy in me, and I promise myself I'll review some modern dance this afternoon.

Auditions at the Academy are...unusual. There were all sorts of dancers out in the lobby when Ann and I walked past them on our way backstage, but this morning's auditions are strictly hip hop. I snatched another pamphlet from a stand by the doors to decipher the schedule they're running, and it seems Sunday was reserved for hopeful newbies, every two hours shifting from one genre to the next. Monday through Friday is for veterans of the Academy, for the owners to review their students' progress and decide if they should be moved up—or in a rare case, demoted.

Monday was ballet, Tuesday was tap, Wednesday was contemporary with aerial silks at the end, Thursday was a mix of ballroom, and Friday is hip hop and jazz.

The track ends, and the girls bows and exits to the left wing.

 _I was impulsive and rash_.

Viewing the performances helps, but not enough for me to stop wondering about my family. I should've told them, screamed it in their faces that I finally made it, that I had won for once, but I left them a measly note instead. A note. I was too poisoned with anger to be sensible, to do my best to explain it to them, use every bit of evidence in my possession to  _make them_ believe me. If only to see the surprise on their faces, to prove them all wrong.

But at the same time, the idea was too good to ignore in the moment. When I was in the living room, doing my best not to cry while I felt so ganged up upon, I recalled what I read in the pamphlet.

_Principal dancers have first claim to our complimentary suites, located on the tenth and eleventh stories of our property._

Tiberias never called me a principal dancer, but he gave away the spot as Maven's partner to me, which suggested I am.

 _Technically_ , my family might file a missing person's report, have the police track me down and return me home. I'm four months from seventeen. But after Shade, I trust they won't. It was fear holding me back, another excuse, like Cal said. My family likes the police as little as I do, and they won't go to them, not in this case. I left in a way no better than Shade, but they have no reason to suspect I'm connected to a gang or other suspicious activity.

It's the most selfish act I've ever committed. I snapped and I broke at my parents' words, and there was nothing more inviting than the open air—humid as it was—pulling at me from outside my bedroom window.

I'll go back, as soon as my new life has settled down at the Academy and my family's had time to cool down. I'll take the subway to my apartment, walk up its stairs, and knock on the door. I'll give my family five tickets to my first show, making it—

Maven Calore takes a seat next to me with stiff posture.

Almost jumping out of my seat and certainly jumping from my daydreaming, I blink at him, wordless.

I didn't see him approach me, though in my defense, there was hardly time to. I sit on the right side of the auditorium, three seats in so I don't block a couple's view a few rows behind me. Maven came from my blind spot, probably from the back doors.

Even if the boy had walked through an entire row, I wouldn't have noticed him; lost because of my thoughts and problems, as is the usual.

And I can't imagine how stupid I look, staring at Maven like I'm expecting him to spit at me. "Hi?" I say, my voice buckling. 

He doesn't say anything at first, his eyes flickering from me to the stage. Maven taps a finger on his knee and takes a breath. "Hi," he returns. 

The air in my throat goes heavy. Why is he here?  _To inform me of the bad news, of him successfully convincing his father to wash his hands of me_. I tell myself no; Maven wouldn't be here if they were getting rid of me, he'd have somebody else do it.

Then  _why_ is he here? To get to know me? I can hardly believe it, after his reaction in Tiberias's office. I wouldn't call him outright-disgusted, but he wasn't pleased with the idea of dancing with me. Maybe to persuade me into leaving, or getting a different partner, or—

"I wanted to apologize," Maven states quietly.

The way he says it makes my heart beat faster. "You did?" I ask, sounding too surprised.

In the background, a dancer comes onto the stage. I pay her no heed, my attention pinned to the ice in Maven's eyes.

He nods slowly. "Will you walk with me?"

I nod. "Sure."

My legs refuse to straighten, so Maven takes the lead. I push from my chair with great effort, shimmying out of the row.

We head up the aisle, music blasting from the speakers the only sound. I refuse to walk behind Maven, so I match his pace, taking extra strides.

He's a wraith in the darkened theatre, black hair and shirt, but his shorts are tan. I've spent little time around Maven, but he seems better suited in the clothes I met him in, very similar to Cal's workout pants and plain shirt. I always find it weird for dancers to wear street clothes, though I do it myself, having worn a leotard just once this year.

An attendant at the door eyes me so quickly I almost miss it and gives Maven a curt smile, and my partner and I step out into the sunlight.

Maven stops us in the middle of the room, holding a hand out for me to shake. "Maven Calore. I'd like to introduce myself properly, rather than have my father do it for me. I'm sorry about what happened in the office, I was just...surprised. I thought I'd have somewhat of a say in who became my partner for the season, and when my father threw it in my face, I didn't react the way I should've."

I take his hand, smoother than I would've guessed. "It's okay; I understand. Mare Barrow. After everything, I would hope you'd have my name right by now." It's said with humor and humor alone, not infected with anything negative. Since Maven is playing nice, which I wasn't exactly expecting, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

He makes a face, probably thinking of the Sunday's blur. "Your fall was the most horrifying thing I've ever seen. If it makes you feel better, they're adding a beam up there this weekend."

"Wonderful. It was embarrassing, more than physically painful," I say, looking at the floor to mask a blush. "But the dance was worth it."

"You should've seen my mother's face while she watched your dance," Maven says out of the blue, chuckling to himself. "It was so obvious, once you came out, with the way you held yourself. She was absolutely shocked, along with me and my father. Cal apparently foresaw it, but even he was moved by your insufferable little head jerk. As for the rest of the crowd...yeah." Another laugh. 

"What?" I say, looking up at him. Maven isn't as tall as Cal is, but he doesn't fail in towering over me. "Are they scared of me or something?"

"Of the girl who could sue this place if she tried hard enough?" Maven raises a brow, referring to my near-death incident. "Not scared, but intimidated, probably. My parents, on the other hand, might be scared. It turns out it's rather hard to cover up a maid's fall from ill-equipped stage rafters in front of six-hundred witnesses."

"So they gave me this part to shut me up," I muse, biting my lip.

"Don't think of it in that sense. They'd be fools to turn you away, legal liability or no. They threw in the not pressing charges or taking it to the press part as frosting on the cake, in addition to gaining one of the best dancers they've ever taught. What are you, seventeen?"

It's nice to hear it from another person's mouth. My parents shaved off a decent amount of my confidence last night. "Yeah," I admit, rolling my eyes at what I have to say next. "I dropped out of school a while back, otherwise I'd be entering my senior year."

Maven's brows knit together, but there's no judgement in the action. The dancers warming up in the lobby drown out the chance of us being overheard, paying no attention to Maven Calore or the girl who fell from the stage rafters.

"I'm seventeen, too," he says, stuffing hands in his pockets. For everything the two of us are, Maven's found a similarity. He heads to the revolving door, walking backwards to maintain eye contact. "Anyway. I thought we'd redo our first meeting and forget what happened in my father's office. Unless you're busy today, I could take you to buy some new dance clothes."

"Shopping?" I blurt, my turn to crunch my eyebrows. So much for Maven being an inhospitable partner, with this new side of him emerging from the near-silent boy I met not a week ago. "I already have dance supplies, and there's nothing else I'm in desperate urge of. Thank you, but—"

Maven cuts me off with a disbelieving tilt of his head. He speaks louder with the distance separating us. "Really? Your shoes fit perfectly? None of your tights have holes? We wreck dance supplies like wildfire, and if your supplies are in perfect shape, they won't be by the end of the first month. Let's go. I'm buying."

I huff a breath and cross my arms, but Maven's starting through the door and I follow after him. He's hit right on the mark about my shoes,  a tad smaller than comfortable, and every single pair of my tights are fraying or else with rips tearing up the thighs.

I push past the revolving doors, Maven waiting for me.

We're two rocks in a stream on the street, people flowing around us in a volley of color and voices. Somebody bumps me in the shoulder as I stare at Maven, his eyes matching the blue of skyscrapers. God, why are his eyes so blue?

Speaking first, I say, "You're right. My stock of dance clothes and shoes is pathetic, but I can buy those things for myself. I don't know if you've heard, but I have a job now, better pay than maids receive." I wink to mask my seriousness. I don't want to rely on Maven or anybody else to spend money on me when I have a salary in my future. It's a pride thing, and it would kill me for Maven, of the Calore variety, to take me shopping.

"You would've died if not for a rope, and nobody's acknowledging it," Maven says gently, stepping under the marquee to escape the torrent of pedestrians. It's nearly lunch hour, making the streets extra-awful. "My family gave you a job, but you would've deserved it had you auditioned normally. You're my partner, now, and I don't mind. I can get to know you, and you can get to know me. I'm well-off, so it's no problem, Mare."

I swallow against my instincts. "Where are we going?"

Maven grins, showing off straight, white teeth. "I have a few places in mind."

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

"Really?" I ask, dodging Maven as he tries to shove leotards into my hands for me to try on. "I need ten? I have three back in my room."

I pass between two racks brimming with leotards, Maven close behind. "It's up to you. Depends how often you want to wash your clothes."

Turning to him, I use both of my hands to grab the hangers he's begun putting on his wrists, having run out of space on his elbows, leggings slung on them. "You look absolutely ridiculous. Don't they have baskets here?"

Here. Our first stop of the day, according to Maven. We walked uptown half a mile for what has to be the largest dance shop in New York: warmly illuminated by beams of lights—comparable to the ones in the rafters of a stage, but less harsh—with windows flaunting the theatre district outside. The walls are creamy, and two wide pipes cross the ceiling, to add some sense of rusticness.

The clothes...oh, the clothes. I've never penned myself for a girly-girl, content with my thrifted outfits and barren closet. But something awakened in me the second Maven and I walked in, having come up a flight of stairs and down a hallway.

I'm holding onto my sense, for the sake of Maven's credit card.

There's a wall of shoes, types of dance shoes I've never seen before. The white and grey racks and tables are endless, stuffed with leotards, others with leggings, or shorts, or ballet skirts...I won't go on. Mannequins decorate the store throughout, wearing all manner of dancing clothes. Packages of tights are on another wall, about every color you could want somewhere along it.

"I think a cart would be preferable," Maven says, looking at a sign posted on a nearby table. "Look. Twenty-percent off."

"Wow," I say sarcastically, shaking my head at Maven. I scuff my foot against the walnut vinyl floor, a ceiling light reflecting off it, and I let laugh loose. "Do you want to find a cart? I'm going to try this stuff on."

Maven dumps the pairs of leggings onto the growing heap between my arms and brushes his hands together, heading to the front of the store. "I'd go with ten," he calls over his shoulder.

I roll my eyes for the dozenth time, but weave in and out of the displays for the opposite way of Maven, to the dressing rooms near the checkout. The soft, fresh material of the leotards presses into my skin, and the scent of new clothes overwhelms my nose. Maven and I have accumulated twenty items for me to try on—I'll likely be lying to my shopping partner about how many  _I actually try on_.

The last hour has lead me to believe I have nothing to fear from being Maven's partner. In fact, based on our interactions, I think I should be looking forward to it. He told me about himself on our walk, how he takes summer classes at Columbia University and does online during the school year to manage dance. He and his brother apprentice at their father's business on Sundays; in a decade or two, Cal will inherit the company.

Lastly, Maven is a fan of classic literature, and baseball, I learned when he poked at my ball cap and asked what the hell a Mets' logo was doing on it; out of my two caps, I wore the interesting one today. He's a Yankees fan, to my dismay.

I enter an ample-sized dressing room, dropping my heap of clothing onto the bench. The pile is a majority of neutral hues mixed with instances of dark cool colors. Before I take my current clothes off, I sort the heap, removing an off-brown leotard with a red tint to it. There's a half-chance Maven's found all these things while walking around blind.

The leotard goes to the back-on-the-rack hook, and I remove my shoes, jean shorts, and shirt to slip into the first of many leotards.

Once in it, the price tag  _literally_ itches against my skin. I resist the temptation of sneaking a glance at it.

Without tights, it's passable for a black swimsuit, a scooped neckline and a low back. I swivel around myself, smoothing out a wrinkle in the fabric. Simple. I like it.

Slinking out of it, I return the leotard to its hanger and place it on the bench. 

So begins a very long process.

**< ><><><><><><><><><>**

"Let's compromise at five leotards and three pairs of leggings," I tell Maven, who loiters near the checkout, typing into his phone. A metal basket is set next to his feet, as promised.

"Your loss." He tucks his phone into a pocket, gesturing at the at basket. "They don't have carts. Sorry."

"No, your loss." I kneel to put a significantly smaller pile of clothes in the basket. "You're going to have to carry another one soon." I pick up the basket at my feet, moving towards the wall of shoes I can't help but ogle at. "Shoes?"

"That's the spirit."

We cut between tables, my fingers brushing up against athletic shirts and tank tops along the way. I'll have to come back and look at those...

My shoe collection is depressing, to say the least. My feet haven't grown in the last year, but I swear my pointe shoes have shrunk, and I managed to put a hole through a pair of jazz shoes. My taps, the same model Cal's worn, are scuffed beyond recognition, having been at the end of their lifespan amidst my final weeks at the studio.

Pants and leotards are one thing, but I find dance shoes...empowering. Pointe shoes allow you to stand on the tips of your toes and  tapping makes sounds your feet can't manage alone. It'll be nice to have new things, things I don't associate with my room, where my clothes were hidden for months.

I stop in front of the wall. "What do I need?" I ask Maven, who scans it. Each model of shoe is positioned on top of a transparent plastic strip, clipped onto paneling. And there must be seventy different types, between the ballet—pointe and non-pointe—jazz, tap, sneakers, and heeled shoes. Most are black or pink, but one of the sneakers is pink, blue, and yellow, and there's a pair of golden heels to the right.

"It depends on what classes you're in. Some of our teachers have specific dress codes, but..." He reaches past me for the tap shoe Cal's been misusing, with a chunky silver heel and a black body. "Go with this for tap."

Maven offers it to me, though it's several sizes too big. "I have these ones, but you're right. They're kind of beat up." By beat up, I mean they're wrecked, screws holding the metal ready to fall off. "Tell me." I hit the heel against my hand, metal on skin. "Does your brother wear tap shoes everywhere he goes? Because it's annoying."

"You saw him up in the rafters," Maven acknowledges. "Not usually, no. He was in a rush, I guess, trying to cram in a tap practice. I slightly outmatch Cal in tap. He knows it too and spends a lot of his free time trying to fix it."

"Funny," I say, not meaning the word. I haven't gotten over the  _you haven't missed much, and your brother scored in your place_  line. "What are you, two years younger than him? He can dance all day, and you still have to do school."

"Yup." Maven shifts, picking up a black jazz shoe. Just by the way he turns his shoulders ever-so-slightly, I know I've hit a fragile nerve. He goes on anyway. "I'm good, but Cal's great. The curse of being the younger sibling: I'll always be in my brother's shadow."

 _Ouch_. Cal's little brother, his shadow, just admitted a truth I can't admit to myself half the time. I take a few steps towards the column of ballet shoes, where Maven turns a ballet slipper in his hand.

"We'll have someone help us find the right size," he says, pointing a thumb at the three aisles of shoe boxes behind me. He opens his mouth to say more about the shoes, probably, but I interrupt him.

"Believe me. I get it, feeling you don't compare to your brother. My sister..." I trail off, swallowing. I toss the tap shoe into the bag for something to do. "She's younger than me, but it's no secret at home my parents favor her." The words fall out of my mouth, fast and fluent. They remind me of my family and Gisa's red hair, Gisa, who has a room all to herself now. "She's a seamstress and I'm a dancer, and according to my parents, sewing is realistic and dance isn't."

It doesn't sound valid, when I'm Maven Calore's partner at the Manhattan Dance Academy, but it's the truth.

Maven's thoughts are similar, his lips twisting into a scowl. "How could they not support you? You're a professional dancer...how could they not support you?" He says it softer the second time.

"Because they don't know," I say simply, no more dramatic than telling him his shirt is black or the sky is blue. Maven becomes concerned very quickly, his brows raising an inch up his forehead and eyes wide. I go on, pacing to help my anxiety. "They never even knew I got a job. They've never been supportive, and yesterday, dance came up in a conversation, things were said...at that point I had no interest in telling them about the Academy."

"So you..."

"Ran away?" I nod. I'm forging the signatures allowing me to live at the Academy, as I'm underage. My parents won't inquire after me to the police. It's an iffy plan, but it's the best I have.

"I'm sorry," he says. "It's not fair. Not at all."

No. It's not. A lot of things in life aren't at all fair.

"This is good for me. Thank you," I say, sweeping a hand at the racks around the store. I feel so privileged, so special compared to a week ago. I've continued to refrain from sneaking glances at the price tags, and I honestly don't want to know the grand total. 

Maven doesn't care about the money, has no reason to, yet he's proven thus far to be a decent guy. I don't mind spending the day with him, getting to know somebody I'll be spending a lot of time with this year.

"Do you want to try on shoes now?" he asks, and I nearly hug him for changing the subject so gracefully. "They have more somewhere, too, if you care."

I settle down on a bench off to the side of the wall, the tiniest smile inching onto my face. "I didn't think I had a choice."


End file.
